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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27422839">Not From Kindred Stock</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013'>p1013</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Accidental Murder in Self-Defense, Astoria Greengrass &amp; Draco Malfoy Friendship, Astoria Greengrass is an Agent of Chaos, Astoria Greengrass's Blood Curse | Blood Malediction, Auror Harry Potter, Bisexual Harry Potter, Bodyswap, Case Fic, Disowned Draco Malfoy, Down and Out Draco Malfoy, Drinking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Gay Draco Malfoy, H/D Erised 2020, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Masturbation, Memory Charm | Obliviate (Harry Potter), Mild Blood, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, POV Alternating, Past Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Person of Color Harry Potter, Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Potioneer Draco Malfoy, Potions Accident, Potions Shop Owner Draco Malfoy, Potions Theory, Sectumsempra Scars (Harry Potter), Serious Injuries, Sexual Fantasy, Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 01:03:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>45,779</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27422839</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Potter!" Draco calls again, but this time he pauses at the sound of his voice. "Potter?"</p><p>Something is <em>very</em> wrong.</p><p>Because now that he's gained a little of his equilibrium back and the room is no longer spinning, Draco has a sinking realisation that his voice doesn't sound rough or gravelly, but rather <em>different</em>. <em>Different</em> like his vision and the feel of his body around his bones and the bloody goddammned fucking clothes on his—shagging Salazar, God fuck, this isn't his body.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>229</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>877</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>H/D Erised 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/herman_the_moth/gifts">herman_the_moth</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Huge thank you to my wonderful team of alpha and beta readers. I would not have been able to do this without your support, enthusiasm, and keen eye for extraneous commas. L, B, and N, you are the absolute best.</p><p>Even MORE thanks to caroll-in who asked for body swap, and by God, I gave it to her. I hope you enjoy your story. I had a fantastic time writing it.</p><p>And, last but not least, thank you to the wonderful Erised mods. I cannot find the words to express my gratitude for all your help and guidance throughout the process. You are amazing.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Of course, we will be unable to definitively prove that the described scenario indeed took place on early Earth, but the reported chemistry shows that, under plausible prebiotic conditions, mutually synergistic reaction pathways can be established in which the intermediates along one pathway help the chemistry of the other.</p>
  <p><em>Unified prebiotically plausible synthesis of pyrimidine and purine RNA ribonucleotides</em> by Sidney Becker, Jonas Feldmann, Stefan Wiedemann, Hidenori Okamura, Christina Schneider, Katharina Iwan, Antony Crisp, Martin Rossa, Tynchtyk Amatov, Thomas Carell</p>
</blockquote><hr/>
<p>Wizarding London is a winding, twisting maze of hidden alleys that cut through the Muggle city surrounding it. It nestles into the brick-and-mortar of Chelsea and Covent Garden, twines around the foundation of Knightsbridge and Whitehall, fills in the gaps left between the cobbles of Soho and Mayfair. It's an ant's nest of brick-lined streets busy with the purposeful movement of wizards and witches going through their daily routines. They step into stores with money and leave with goods. Consumerism, as regular and steady as a heartbeat. And just like a heartbeat feeds the body, pumping blood through arteries and veins, commerce feeds wizarding London, its alleyways the vascular system keeping it all alive.</p>
<p>Though the alleys spread throughout all of London, some are frequented more often than others. Diagon Alley is considered the most reputable, but even it contains a relative scale of decency. Gringotts has pride of place among the shops, with Fortescue's close behind. It's hard to be more respectable than frozen cream and sugar or the quiet clink of coins. But once you start getting closer to Knockturn or Horizont, the feel of the place becomes more drab, less <em>magical</em>. The shine of things is dimmed, either by dust or disinterest. The people moving through these stores carry that gloom with them like a second set of robes, wizards and witches with the shine worn off of them by time or detachment or self-preservation.</p>
<p>As Draco walks towards his potions shop—a tiny thing tucked into an expanded space between Obscurus Books and a tobacconist that leaves his storerooms reeking of cured leaves and smoke—he wonders when, exactly, his shine will finally wear thin. It's been years since he's gleamed, and he's convinced the gilt will wear away at any moment.</p>
<p>But for now, he still has a semblance of his old grace and panache. His clothes, though less ostentatious than they'd been immediately after the war, are still well-fit and bespoke. And Malfoy's Magnificent Mixtures, even as small and forgotten as it is, has crystal clear windows and display cases that sparkle in the light, the potion ingredients inside spread out in perfectly ordered rows. Though most of the showroom is made of sleek lines and shining glass, the sides of the room are made of floor-to-ceiling built-in wooden cabinets. Time and hands have softened the corners of the shelves, and the wood is a swirling mix of chestnut and chocolate brown. Boxes and metal tins line the shelves with small silver scoops laid out nearby. There's a massive golden scale taking up half of the counter space along the edge of the room, and a variety of containers and bags. Most of his customers don't buy potions ingredients from him, preferring the apothecaries in Diagon and Knockturn instead, but a few of them do, and, frankly, he just likes the way it looks. After all, he takes pride in what he's built, inch by inch, Galleon by Galleon, with his own two hands and the sweat of his brow. Draco Malfoy may not be the man he once was—and thank Merlin for that—but he still has his reputation to think of, and there's no way that he'd sink so low as to operate a store that had anything but the appearance of perfection.</p>
<p>The bell rings as he steps through the door, and though it's dim inside, the morning sun not yet flooding the room, everything gleams. He idly runs his hand over the glass and copper display cases, absentmindedly noting inventory he will need to reorder from his suppliers in a week or two, the items that are selling better than expected, the sales that aren't moving product from the shelves. He'll have a bit of reorganising in the showroom to do later, and he's likely to run low on his most common potions by the end of the week, which means hours spent over steaming industrial sized cauldrons to make up the stock. The mirrored set of shelves behind the till looks a little dusty, which also means he'll need to get out a cloth and Muggle window spray—for some reason, the mirror always streaks when he uses magic to clean it—and that's another hour of careful rearranging of potions bottles and climbing on step ladders and dusting. Still, it puts a soft smile on his face, knowing that he's the lord of this tiny kingdom and that it is, in its small way, thriving.</p>
<p>It's not the life he expected for himself after being acquitted by the Wizengamot. He expected to carry on his family's bloodline, to marry Astoria Greengrass because his parents picked her out for him like a new set of dress robes, perfectly tailored and immediately forgotten. But Astoria was more of a surprise than any of them expected. The younger Greengrass sister was demure and quiet in public, but once you got her alone, she became as much of a firecracker as any Gryffindor, her tongue as sharp as a blade.</p>
<p>After their engagement was announced in the <em>Daily Prophet, </em>their parents left them alone in the front parlour of Malfoy Manor, ostensibly to give them a brief moment together to share longing glances or secretive hand touches or whatever it was that well-bred aristocratic couples got up to in private. Instead, Astoria turned to him, her brown eyes blazing with barely repressed fury. "You don't love me."</p>
<p>He shrugged. "Does it matter?"</p>
<p>"I'd like to think it does." She glared at him. "Not to mention that you're gay."</p>
<p>That surprising announcement was the start of their friendship, as unexpected as Astoria's ability to read Draco like an open book. It wasn't exactly an auspicious beginning for their engagement, though, which very quickly became a platonic relationship the likes of which Draco never had before. Astoria was the first person to suggest Draco pursue a potions mastery, and after the idea seeded itself in his mind and refused to come loose, she helped him find a master willing to apprentice a former Death Eater. She stayed up late into the night while he studied, keeping him quiet company and making sure he didn't fall asleep too close to the lit burner under his cauldron. And when he finally received his certification and could only think of severing his father's hold over him, of opening a storefront and becoming a self-made man, she broke off the engagement after seven years—much longer than it ever should have gone—because he couldn't.</p>
<p>His father's reaction to Draco's announcement that he was going into trade was as volatile as an Exploding Potion left bottled too long. Lucius railed and ranted, his thin hands waving through the air so that the rings adorning his fingers caught the light and threw it back at Draco like the words spitting from his mouth. But Draco was raised to stay calm in the face of belligerent authority, and he honed that skill while Voldemort lived in his home. After the war, scorned by a public that wanted nothing more than for Draco to disappear into the middle of the North Sea for both the foreseeable and unforeseeable future, he became a master of keeping his face perfectly still while furious. So while his father's white face turned red and splotchy and his mother stood at the edge of the room looking disappointed and distant, Draco kept his face fixed and placid, and that evening he quietly packed up his school trunk with all of the things he cared about enough to keep, and left.</p>
<p>Astoria stayed by his side, even without the diamond ring or the promise of even more wealth. It was more than Draco deserved. He loved her, though not in the way his parents hoped he would, or the kind of love she merited. She was his closest friend, one of his only confidants. When he needed her, she stepped up without any hesitation and with her full support. And he used her. For years, she was a shield between him and his parents, and though the two of them grew so close as to be inseparable during that time, he can't help the frisson of shame that races through him when he thinks of the cavalier way he treated her at the beginning, the almost disposable way he thought of her when they first met. Now, she's his family, his <em>only</em> family, and he would do anything for her.</p>
<p>Those first years after his disownment had been the hardest. Though Astoria fronted him the money, no one wanted to rent him space, and no one wanted to hire him on as an employee. It had been a bit of luck—and no, he hadn't brewed Felix Felicis, though he had the materials and the aptitude for it—that he finally found the store front.</p>
<p>A rundown, ramshackle mess of a place left to moulder by its former owner, Draco was only able to secure it because it was going to be demolished otherwise. But it had massive windows and a wide-open showroom, wasn't too far away from Diagon Alley, and Draco was unlikely to find another place with this much potential in England again.</p>
<p>There was no effort made to clean the place up before he took ownership of it, though. When he opened the door for the very first time, he found a tidy pile of human excrement waiting for him in the middle of the floor. He Vanished it, as any sensible person with a wand and magic would, and cursed his way through the rest of the day's housekeeping. When he got everything to gleam, his cleaning spells as thorough and exacting as his brewing, he Transfigured an ornate, golden <em>M </em>exactly where the shit had been left, a reminder that he was better than what they thought of him, whomever they were, and that, no matter how much he worked or how much he changed, they would never think more of him than that, a pile of faeces better forgotten or left to someone else to deal with.</p>
<p>Malfoy's Magnificent Mixtures opened to a mixed response. The witches and wizards who actually purchased potions from him gave glowing, if begrudging, praise. Most of the negativity came from his father's enemies—and a few of his friends. All of them shouted a variety of vitriol that could be condensed to the idea that Malfoys were unfit to run a shop, no matter how well-appointed it was or how perfectly brewed its potions were. It was unseemly that a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight work in service, and it was unbecoming to buy anything from a former Death Eater. None of it mattered to Draco. He was happier behind his till—his feet and legs aching from standing all day, his fingers and hands rough with calluses, his clothes lacking any ornamentation—than he'd ever been at the Manor, or that he managed to turn a comfortable, if not exorbitant, profit by the end of his first year.</p>
<p>In those early years Magnificent Mixtures was open, Draco kept the golden <em>M </em>inlaid in the floor polished to a high shine. But as it gained a patina from time and the shoes that walked across it, he let it grow darker. Now, it's a symbol of how far he's come, the gold nearly black, still recognisable but looking entirely different from what it once was. He steps over it to reach the back counter and the till there, and as he places the tip of his wand to the locked drawer, the fixtures along the sides of the showroom burst into light and the sign on the door flips from <em>Closed</em> to <em>Open</em>.</p>
<p>Another day begins.</p><hr/>
<p>Of course, that doesn't mean that anything actually <em>happens</em>. Draco's shop is rarely busy on Thursdays, and with the recent string of burglaries in Horizont and Knockturn, shoppers have been less likely to turn from the well-trod cobblestones of Diagon to venture into other sections of wizarding London's main shopping district. It's put a bit of a dent into his savings, but the lack of foot traffic hasn't hurt as much as he expected. His inventory is well-stocked, his supplies in storage at manageable levels, and his vault at Gringotts has just enough Galleons to get by for the next month or so. He's still in the black, still liquid. Once the damned DMLE can get off of its arse and catches whomever is causing all of this trouble, Draco will land on his feet.</p>
<p>He always does.</p>
<p>Still, the morning is nearly over when the bell over the door lets out a cheerful chime and Draco's first customer of the day walks in.</p>
<p>"Welcome to Malfoy's Magnificent Mixtures," he says brightly from the counter. "How may we assist you today?"</p>
<p>The old woman is wearing glasses thick enough to be used to start fires. She blinks up at Draco from her hunched position, her white hair a towering approximation of candy floss that looks like it will either collapse under its own weight or lift off of her head like a cloud. Either way, Draco's stunned into silence as she grins up at him from the level of his countertop.</p>
<p>"Young man, I'm looking for a hearing potion!" She shouts the words with a scratchy, high voice. Draco nearly winces at the volume of it but manages to keep his expression friendly.</p>
<p>"Yes, of course."</p>
<p>"What?"</p>
<p>"Yes!" he shouts back. "Of course!"</p>
<p>She frowns, the wrinkles in her face somehow growing deeper. "No need to shout, young man."</p>
<p>Reminding himself that he needs the money and that his customers are his infinite joy, Draco forces another smile to his face. "Just one moment, please."</p>
<p>"What?"</p>
<p>He sighs and turns to the display of potions behind the till. There's an Auditus Elixer near the top, its bright blue bottle gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, and he quickly levitates it from its resting place to the center of the counter.</p>
<p>"That will be one Galleon, two Sickles, and fourteen Knuts."</p>
<p>"What?" She reaches for the potion, turning it over in her hand as Draco does his best not to grimace. "Is this the thing, then? It doesn't look the same as what I usually get."</p>
<p>"I promise you, ma'am, it will do wonders," Draco says as he rings up the purchase. After the witch puts her coins on the countertop, Draco picks them up and goes to place them in the drawer. Before he knows what's happening, though, she picks up the potion, quickly removes the stopper, and takes an enthusiastic drink. His stomach turns at the size of her gulping swallow while her face turns green, then white as her hair.</p>
<p>"Oh, goodness," she says, quietly stunned at the likely horrific taste.</p>
<p>Draco takes the bottle from her limp fingers, then points at his head. "It goes into your ears."</p>
<p>Draco isn't sure if she hears him when she says, "Of course, of course," or if she's just talking herself through the nausea.</p>
<p>Draco takes the stopper from where it's sitting on the counter, then fills the small pipette built into it with elixir. Gesturing for the woman to tilt her head to the side, he puts three drops into her left ear as her hair does its best to stay atop her head. "Can you hear me any better?"</p>
<p>She sags with relief, though her face is still unnaturally pale. "Yes, thank you. That's much better." She tilts her head to the other side and lets Draco put another three drops into her right ear. "Oh, that's just wonderful. Tastes <em>awful</em>, though."</p>
<p>"I can imagine. I've got a breath-freshening potion that might take the edge off. Free of charge, of course."</p>
<p>"Thank you, young man." She grimaces again. "Best add a label to that one."</p>
<p>Draco silently agrees as he hands over the Auditus and the Breath Refreshener. "You'll need that once a week, though if you notice your hearing getting worse, it's safe to put one more drop in each ear. Bring the bottle back when you're in need of a refill, and you'll get a ten percent discount."</p>
<p>"And I will be back, of course." She taps the side of her head, her white hair teetering unsteadily. "I'm sure my poor husband is tired of screaming at me, day and night."</p>
<p>"Oh, I can't imagine he'd raise his voice to the love of his life."</p>
<p>She flushes, and Draco's smile brightens just a bit as she bats her eyelashes at him, though they're magnified by her glasses and look like the legs of some flirtatious insect.</p>
<p>As she turns and creakily heads towards the exit, Draco is surprised when the bell above his door chimes again. He can feel his eyebrow wanting to raise, surprised at the sudden influx of customers, but he stops the motion and replaces it with his standard welcoming shopkeeper expression instead.</p>
<p>"Welcome to Malfoy's Magnificent Mix—" he starts before cursing. The old woman spins around, eyes ludicrously wide behind her spectacles, then hurries towards the exit, almost running into the Auror standing in the doorway.</p>
<p>An Auror named Harry Potter.</p>
<p>Draco curses again.</p>
<p>"Pleasure to see you, too, Malfoy," Potter says as he holds the door open for the old witch. "Have a nice day, ma'am."</p>
<p>"Oh yes, of course," she says, blinking rapidly at Potter as if doing so will make his presence in this potions shop explainable. She stumbles a bit on her way out, and Draco clenches his teeth together hard enough to hear them creak. Even a decade after the war, Potter's celebrity—and the requisite hero worship that comes with it—is no less diminished.</p>
<p>It's not that he hasn't been <em>aware</em> of the Boy Who Lived and his meteoric rise through the ranks of the DMLE. After the war, the papers had fixated on him and his heroic exploits, which were spread all across wizarding Britain, the Continent, and even a short jaunt to America. It does not help that all of his time spent vanquishing foes and putting fear into the hearts of unscrupulous men and saving kittens from trees has only made Potter's attractiveness into something that cuts through Draco like a warm knife through butter.</p>
<p>The only difference is that Draco doesn't melt.</p>
<p>Not much.</p>
<p>Even through Potter's heavy Auror robes, Draco can make out the shape of his body. Well-muscled and broad with a trim waist, Potter is a glorious specimen of a man in his prime. His dark skin gleams in the light, throwing off a copper sheen that makes Draco ache to touch, to see if it doesn't only look like sun-warmed metal but feels like it, too. Eyes still as arresting as ever, the green holds Draco trapped as if he were in a deep forest, lost among the trees. A part of him wants to be lost, to wind his way through that evergreen place until he finds whatever mystery is waiting for him on the other end.</p>
<p>But enough with flights of fancy. Draco has moved on from wanting Potter, at least seriously. Their time at Hogwarts taught Draco that it was a fruitless endeavor to desire the Boy Who Never Looked Your Way Twice. It's an old lesson now.</p>
<p>Harry Potter means trouble.</p>
<p>So, whatever Draco's inconvenient physical response to the man now, Harry Potter—somehow more of a golden boy than he had been before joining the Aurors—is now darkening Draco's doorstep and his mood. As much as he wishes it weren't so, this can only end poorly. But if Draco's learned anything from five years in retail and a lifetime in a restrictive, upper class family, it's how to hide his true feelings.</p>
<p>"Auror Potter," he says in his most cheerful voice as he comes around the counter, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"</p>
<p>Potter's expression and frantic blinking, his green eyes bright behind his thick, black-framed glasses, is reminiscent of Draco's previous customer. He turns up the charm, widening his grin. It doesn't matter that it's genuine, Draco surprised to find his initial ire dimming as Potter continues to stare at him with wide eyes. When Potter's cheeks flush a delightful shade of mortified pink, Draco does his best to tamp down the rush of glee and longing that comes with it.</p>
<p>"Merlin, Malfoy," Potter says before looking away and straightening his robes. "You can turn it down a bit."</p>
<p>"I've no idea what you're talking about, Officer."</p>
<p>"Shove off." Potter takes a Quick Quotes Quill from his pocket, along with a small Muggle-style notepad. Flipping the cover back, he sets it and the quill on the countertop, then rests his elbow next to them, his expression one of annoyance, suspicion, and a clear desire to be anywhere else but here. "As you likely know, there's been a string of robberies in the neighborhood. I'm interviewing all of the local shopkeepers, especially those closest to those establishments that have been burgled. This should only take about ten to fifteen minutes of your time, and then I will, happily, get out of your hair."</p>
<p>"Fan-fucking-tastic," Draco drawls. Arms crossed, he rests his weight on his heels. "It's time someone finally did something about this awful nonsense."</p>
<p>"We've <em>been</em> doing… Merlin, Malfoy, just tell me what you know."</p>
<p>Draco holds a hand out and starts counting off on his fingers. "Well, first, the pub was hit. Stole everything poor Beauregard managed to earn that Friday night. The man wouldn't stop talking about it. <em>Everything, Draco</em>"—his voice goes high and sad—"<em>everything in the till</em>." Draco shakes his head. "As if I care how much they took, like the amount stolen makes it any better or worse when the Fountain of Fair Fortune is as close to an institution as possible in Horizont. Then Cobb and Webb last week, then Moribund's, and then—and I cannot believe the <em>cheek</em> of this person—they knocked over the <em>locksmiths</em>."</p>
<p>"I'm aware of which establishments were robbed, Malfoy."</p>
<p>"The <em>locksmiths</em>, Potter. Honestly, I was very nearly charmed by that one."</p>
<p>Potter pushes his glasses out of the way to rub at the bridge of his nose, but Draco makes out a twitch at the corner of his mouth that might be a reluctant smile. "What about you? What've you seen?"</p>
<p>"Other than a distinct lack of customers? Not much."</p>
<p>"The Fountain is directly across from your storefront, and you didn't see anything?"</p>
<p>"This may shock you, Potter, but I was <em>working</em>."</p>
<p>Potter looks around the open showroom and lets his eyes settle for a long, pointed moment on the wide front windows, the Fountain of Fair Fortune clearly visible on the other side of the street. His eyebrow rises.</p>
<p>"In my brewing room," Draco adds firmly, "which is located in the <em>back</em> of the store."</p>
<p>"And the other shops are right around the corner. You don't remember seeing any kind of disturbance or any suspicious characters?"</p>
<p>Gravity no longer winning out against Draco's annoyance, his eyebrow raises. "We're around the corner from Knockturn, Potter. I believe 'suspicious character' is a prerequisite for visiting this area."</p>
<p>"Funny." Potter's quill scratches across the paper for a moment, then falls limply to the counter, twitching its vanes as if annoyed that it hasn't needed to write more than it has. "You've been very helpful. Thank you so much for your contribution to this investigation."</p>
<p>"I'm not trying to be <em>un</em>helpful, Potter." Draco frowns. "It's hurting business, having this nonsense going on, not to mention the sense of… <em>violation</em> the whole thing brings about. I want it to stop as much as anyone, and if I knew anything, I'd tell you. But, unfortunately, I haven't seen a damned thing."</p>
<p>Potter opens his mouth to respond just as the bell over the door rings. Turning to greet his new customer, Draco immediately freezes. The figure in the doorway is tall and thin, their body wrapped in close-fitting black robes. Their hands are covered in black gloves, and wrapped around their face is a clearly charmed cowl, the fabric unnaturally flat with obscuring and darkness spells. The material doesn't reflect any of the early evening afternoon light glinting through the shop windows, instead absorbing it as thoroughly and completely as the space between stars. All Draco can make out is the glint of two, dark eyes from a thin slit in the material, and as he takes a step forward to try and make out more of this person's face, the figure raises their wand, and Draco stills.</p>
<p>"I don't think you want to do that," Potter says quietly from next to Draco, his hand sliding towards the open front of his robe and, Draco assumes, his wand holstered against his side.</p>
<p>The figure doesn't say anything but does turn their attention from Draco to Harry. Piercing eyes narrowed, they take a step closer to Potter, the fingers wrapped around their wand tightening with so much strength that Draco can hear the leather of their gloves creak at the strain.</p>
<p>"This is your last warning," Potter says again. "Put down your wand."</p>
<p>The figure steps around a display case, moving closer to Potter and shifting away from the center aisle of the store. Their wand doesn't move an inch, trained on Draco and Potter, and Draco wishes he'd thought to grab his wand from the backroom earlier, rather than leaving it next to his kettle.</p>
<p>Something shifts in the blank blackness of the figure's face, and before Draco knows what's happening or why he's moving, he takes a single step forward. At the same moment, the man—and Draco can tell it's a man now, with the way that his voice rumbles through the room and settles into the center of Draco's chest—shouts out a spell that Draco doesn't recognise. Bright blue and red light bursts from the end of his wand, flying towards Draco and Potter with painful intent, and because Draco moved before, because his foot shifted two inches to the left instead of the right, it hits him straight in the chest, rather than slamming into Potter behind him.</p>
<p>That should be the end of everything, Draco trapped in the awful vice-like grip of this twisted curse and dying because of it. He can feel the spell digging its awful, painful claws into his body, the light pouring into his veins like boiling water. There's no urge to scream. It's too much for that. The sensation isn't even like pain, though it's there and keen, but an overwhelming feeling of <em>wrongness</em>, like his body knows that whatever is happening to it is something that should never happen to flesh and bone. Knees locked, muscles clenched in a full-body spasm, he can't do anything other than stand in the corruption of the spell's grasp and <em>ache</em>.</p>
<p>"Merlin, Malfoy!"</p>
<p>Potter rushes forward, and he must knock into one of the display cases because there's the sound of crashing glass, and something splashes against Draco's trouser's leg. It's icy against his burning skin, too cold but still a relief, still a distraction from the scorching agony tearing through his body. He almost doesn't notice when Potter wraps his hand around Draco's wrist, not at first. But then the pain flares where Potter's fingers touch Draco, and now he's actually screaming, his throat raw from the sound as he scrabbles for Potter's skin where it feels like it's searing fingerprints into Draco's flesh. It's too much, and his nails bite into Potter's arm. Blood wells and Potter's curses join Draco's disjointed moans of pain until they're both grabbing at each other, desperate to pull away but somehow unable to.</p>
<p>Eventually, Potter pushes Draco in the chest, or Draco shoves Potter away; whoever finally forces them apart, it's hard enough to send them stumbling away from each other. Draco's feet slide in the mess of potions covering the smooth tiled floor, and then he's falling, blue-red light trailing from his bloodied hand to Potter's bleeding arm, and there's a loud crack as his skull hits the ground, and then blessed black relief.</p><hr/>
<p>Draco is pulling himself through a field. Long grass tickles his face and comes away in clumps as he drags himself towards a distant sunrise. Maybe it's a sunset, he isn't sure. There's a red, glowing light on the horizon, though, and all he knows is that he has to go towards it. Its warmth and brightness call to him, and even though there's dirt pressing into his nail beds and he can taste green in the back of his throat, he keeps moving forward, arm over arm, inch by inch, towards the light.</p>
<p>As he comes to, that sense of slow forward movement fades, though the red light is just as strong. It takes him a fuzzy moment to realise it's light bleeding through the thin skin of his eyelids, and when he blinks them open slowly, even that tiny bit of movement makes his head pound.</p>
<p>"I will give you all the Galleons in Gringotts," he says, his voice low and gravelly, "if you can tell me what the hell just happened."</p>
<p>Rolling to his side with a heavy groan, Draco presses his face into the cold tile beneath him. It's wet, sticky, and slightly warm to the touch. As he blinks down at the surface, he curses. Everything is fuzzy, but he can make out a display case's worth of broken potions bottles scattered around him. Glass in shifting hues litters the ground, and when he pulls his hand from the floor, there are shards embedded in his palm, the violet glass stained red with blood.</p>
<p>"Dammit, Potter," he says again as he tries to rise to his feet. "You'd best not be unconscious on my floor."</p>
<p>As soon as he stands, the room spins. Eyes slammed shut against the whirling display cases and the too-bright light filling the room, Draco swallows against nausea and the taste of grass in the back of his mouth. Whatever that damned masked idiot had hit him with, its aftereffects are vile. His whole body feels off, as if it's been stretched to its limits by the spell and put back together wrong. It also <em>aches</em>, bone-deep and pernicious, though the pain is significantly less than it was when the spell wound its way through his arteries and veins and stripped everything bare. His vision, when he finally opens his eyes and blinks away the white dots fogging it, is soft and fuzzy, not a solid line to be found in the whole room.</p>
<p>He turns, and his feet slip a bit in the murky brown mix of potions covering the floor. It's going to take him who knows how long to clean it all up, and there's no way he can leave the mess where it is. There's no predicting how all of these brews will interact with each other. Even with how awful he feels right now, Draco has to act immediately. The disaster on the floor is steaming, the potions combining in some kind of exothermic reaction that does not bode well. There's magically inert sawdust in his brewing room at the back of the shop, and he needs to get it immediately.</p>
<p>"Potter!" he calls again, but this time he pauses at the sound of his voice. "Potter?"</p>
<p>Something is <em>very</em> wrong.</p>
<p>Because now that he's gained a little of his equilibrium back and the room is no longer spinning, Draco has a sinking realisation that his voice doesn't sound rough or gravelly, but rather <em>different</em>. <em>Different</em> like his vision and the feel of his body around his bones and the bloody goddammned fucking clothes on his—shagging Salazar, God fuck, this isn't his body.</p>
<p>This isn't his body.</p>
<p>"Potter!"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Someone's screaming for him, their voice high-pitched with horror and fear, and it draws Harry from unconsciousness like a rope around his neck. Even before he's fully awake, he's rolling onto his side and pushing himself to standing. Everything aches. He hasn't hurt this bad since he fucking <em>died</em>, and he's more than a little off-center with how intense the pain is.</p><p>"Malfoy?" he asks, then freezes. "That's not my voice."</p><p>"It's not your bloody body, either, you incurable moron."</p><p>Harry's standing by the front counter. Or, rather, someone who looks exactly like him is standing by the front counter. This isn't the first time that Harry's seen someone else wearing his skin, so it isn't as immediately off-putting as it probably should be. He recognises that whoever is standing across from him holds themselves differently. Their shoulders are pulled back into proper posture rather than Harry's perpetually worsening slouch. Nose held a little higher in the air, hands open but shaking at their sides. No glasses to be seen, so there's a furrow in the middle of their brow as they try to see clearly, though Harry already knows it's a lost cause. His vision is so bad, there's no seeing anything without his glasses on.</p><p>Which are on the floor, rather than his face. And his vision is perfectly fine.</p><p>"Shit." He's tugging at his left sleeve, and though he's already noted what he's wearing and at least subconsciously knows whose clothing it is, it's not until he sees the faded and muddied form of a skull and a snake that he really <em>comprehends</em> how fucked he currently is.</p><p>"<em>Shit</em>."</p><p>"Yes, <em>shit</em>," Malfoy sneers, and of fucking <em>course</em> it's Malfoy. How in the hell could Harry hear that tone of voice, even hidden within his own baritone, and not immediately recognise it? After over a decade's worth of animosity, he'd know that particular note of disgust anywhere. "But there's no bloody time to deal with that right now. We have to get these potions cleaned up before something worse happens."</p><p>"Something worse than <em>swapping bodies</em>?"</p><p>"Yes, you idiot. Something like the whole bloody shop <em>exploding into flames</em>."</p><p>Startled, Harry glances to the floor, which is smoking. "Oh."</p><p>"Yes, quite." Malfoy squints down at the floor, then curses in a rapid string of invectives that Harry can only half-process. "My brewing room, now. Follow my instructions to the <em>letter</em>, or so help me, I will set you alight myself."</p><p>Harry slips as he hurries after Malfoy, who's already pushed his way through a back door in the shop marked <em>Employees Only</em> in gilt lettering. It swings back at Harry as he tries to follow, and after letting it brush past the end of his rather pointy nose, he follows after.</p><p>He's only able to get the vaguest sense of the space. There's a small kitchenette, a table with three chairs, and a long counter and work bench covered in burners and upturned, empty cauldrons. But he isn't able to keep his focus on the room for long. He's uncomfortable in a way he's never been before in his life. Occupying Malfoy's body is nothing like the times that Harry's taken Polyjuice Potion. Maybe it's because he's always been conscious while undergoing a Polyjuice transformation, but he's never felt like he didn't know the boundaries of his own body after taking it. Malfoy's body, however, is like an ill-fitting suit. The shoulders are too tight, the sleeves too long. Everything's either too constricting or too loose, nothing sitting where it should. It makes hurrying after Malfoy difficult, Harry's legs not moving the way they're supposed to, but he manages to keep his unsteady feet as Malfoy shoves a massive bucket of sawdust into his hands.</p><p>"Dump that over as much of the spill as you can, now." Still reeling, Harry doesn't move. "<em>Now</em>, Potter!"</p><p>With another shove from Malfoy, Harry stumbles his way back through the door. There are bright embers forming in the grout between the tiles, and he curses at the steam and heat rising from the mess. He expects the sawdust to ignite as soon as it hits the floor, but as he upends the bucket over most of the puddle, it doesn't do anything but let off the pleasant scent of wood and warm tea.</p><p>The sawdust doesn't cover everything, though, and Harry tries kicking some of it over top of the still smoking puddles around the edges of the spill.</p><p>It's not very effective, and a small flame bursts into vibrant life on the floor.</p><p>"Out of my way," Malfoy says, pushing Harry to the side before scattering more sawdust over the remaining spilled potions and the tiny finger of flame. "Merlin, you'd think you'd never had to deal with this before."</p><p>"I haven't."</p><p>"Wonderful." Malfoy flings a handful of sawdust at Harry before covering the last smoking pool. "Bloody useless."</p><p>"Malfoy," Harry says hesitantly before brushing the sawdust from his chest, "are we going to address the oliphant in the room?"</p><p>Malfoy scowls down at the stained flecks of wood on the floor. The bucket in his hands is empty, but he clutches it like a life preserver, as if holding onto the heavy metal will keep him afloat.</p><p>"No."</p><p>Harry sighs, and he's surprised at how natural the sound is in Malfoy's voice. "You're in my body."</p><p>"And you're in mine. Seems like you've gotten the better end of the deal."</p><p>"I—How can—" Harry storms over to Malfoy and pushes him hard on the shoulder. Of course, Harry's a fully trained Auror and his body is as much of a weapon as his mind, so Malfoy-wearing-Harry's-skin doesn't shift much at all under the paltry force of Malfoy's own strength. "What the hell happened?"</p><p>"How the bloody fuck should I know?" Malfoy throws his hands up in the air, the bucket clanging to the floor as he drops it. "I was hit with a spell—which, I should mention, felt like I was getting turned inside out by my <em>eyelids</em>, thank you for asking if I was okay, you self-centered rubbish bin—and then I was knocked unconscious. Out of the two of us, you're the only one who could've seen what happened."</p><p>Harry flushes. "He got me, too."</p><p>"Wonderful," Malfoy hisses. "The great Harry Potter, brought low by a cloaked and charmed assailant, leaving my <em>livelihood </em>open for this… this <em>fiend</em> to pilfer through unhindered. And"—Malfoy gestures to the open front door—"you let him get away, free to assault any other well-meaning shopkeepers who don't know any better than to trust the bloody <em>officers of the law</em> that have been tasked with keeping them safe."</p><p>He rounds on Harry, then pushes him aside—much more effectively than Harry's earlier attempt—and mutters his way towards the backroom, his hands rising and falling like unsettled birds on a powerline. Uncertain what Harry should do, exactly, and still reeling a bit from the shock of coming to in someone else's body, he looks down at the slowly staining sawdust, and then, annoyed, starts looking for a dustpan.</p><p>The shop, now that he's looking at it with any sort of intensity, is tidy—excepting the shattered potions and the sawdust sopping them up—and well laid out. The display cases are open and inviting, the various bottles inside them glinting with mysterious light and bright-coloured glass. It begs its customers to wander, to trail their fingers over copper and brass, to peer carefully at the contents, and to purchase whatever little treasure they find with excitement. There's a sense of purpose, of place, to the store, and as Harry wanders, he's surprised to find himself a little impressed by what Malfoy's managed to put together here.</p><p>Harry isn't sure what he imagined the interior of Malfoy's shop would look like, but it's nothing like this. In his mind, it looked like the unholy love child of the room where Snape had taught Harry Legilimency and Borgin and Burkes. Dark wood and poor lighting and unspeakable, unknowable things tucked into the corners and murky glass containers. But as Harry finishes his lap of the showroom, still sans dustpan, he realises that the space <em>feels </em>rather Malfoy-ish, with its bright white light and shining gold and its mystery on display for those who know how to look.</p><p>A moment later, Malfoy comes storming out of the backroom with a metal dustpan and another pail. "Potter," he snarls in Harry's voice, "get over here and help me clean this up."</p><p>"Malfoy." Harry doesn't shift from the edge of the showroom, watches as his shoulders curve under the weight of Malfoy's ire. "You're in my <em>body</em>."</p><p>"I am aware," he grits out.</p><p>"How the fuck are you in my body?"</p><p>Malfoy doesn't respond, just starts carefully scooping the sodden sawdust from the floor and into his pail.</p><p>"Leave the mess, Malfoy," Harry says before striding over. He wrenches the dustpan from Malfoy's grasp, holding it out of reach when Malfoy tries to snatch it back. "Leave it. We need to figure out what the hell happened."</p><p>"What do you think I'm doing?" Malfoy gestures at the floor. "<em>This</em> is what happened. Around twenty different potions, all composed of their own various volatile components, have mixed haphazardly into one, and you and I, caught in a dark spell of unknown origin or intent, fell face fucking first into it."</p><p>"So you have some idea why this happened."</p><p>"I have an idea of the <em>cause</em>, yes," he sneers, reaching again for the dustpan, "but I have no idea of the <em>mechanism</em>, Potter, and, therefore, no idea how to undo this blasted inconvenience."</p><p>Harry finally lets Malfoy take the dustpan back, and he immediately starts carefully scooping more of the sawdust into the pail.</p><p>"The Auror Core has Potions masters and labs," Harry says. "They can sort us out."</p><p>Malfoy laughs mirthlessly. "As if they'd want to dirty their hands by helping a former Death Eater. It's an entirely moot point anyway. Most of these brews were my own recipes, and there's no way to determine the composite pieces of each without the original instructions, and there's absolutely no way in hell I'd hand over <em>my</em> intellectual property to the bloody government if I have any say in the matter."</p><p>"And if you don't?" Harry tries to make his voice threatening. He's used to falling into the low rumble of his voice, looking out over the top of his glasses so that his eyes are bright and focused, his fringe falling away from his forehead enough for his scar to show. It's a calculated move, one he's perfected over the years to strike fear into even the most hardened of criminals.</p><p>But Harry doesn't have his rumbling voice or his bright, focused eyes or his scar. Instead, he has Malfoy's gilded precision, and whatever he's done with it is clearly missing the mark because Malfoy snorts out an undignified laugh.</p><p>"You look constipated," he says matter-of-factly before scooping up the final chunk of sawdust from the floor. He takes his wand from his pocket and casts a tidy <em>Scourgify </em>at the remnants on the floor, then yelps when the tiles go bleach-white, the grout as pristine as it must have been the first day it went down. "Merlin, Potter. How in the world do you stop from blowing yourself up?"</p><p>"Practice," Harry says with quiet embarrassment. He doesn't like to be reminded of how powerful he is, how undeserved that strength is. But now that it's come up, he can't help but notice how different Malfoy's magic feels to his own. It sits in the center of his chest, a low, thrumming beat similar to the one moving through his blood, but softer, almost forgettable with how still it is inside him. He tries to cast something simple, a <em>Lumos</em> or <em>Wingardium Leviosa</em>. He can taste the ozone of it on the back of his tongue, but with the words unspoken and his wand untouched, nothing happens.</p><p>"Anyway," Malfoy says as he tilts the pail around, its contents shifting out of Harry's sight, "the Aurors are hardly going to take your word for it."</p><p>"Of course they'll take my word for it."</p><p>"Really?" Malfoy draws the word out slowly, like a weapon being unsheathed. "You. One Draco Malfoy, reformed Death Eater and shopkeeper, claiming to be Harry Potter." He huffs out a laugh. "They'd have you in Janus Thickey before you could blink."</p><p>"What do you mean?"</p><p>Harry isn't certain his face has ever looked so contemptuously amused as it does right now. "We have no idea if this is temporary, Potter. You'd best get used to the idea that you are, for all intents and purposes, <em>me</em>."</p><p>Dread sinks into his stomach along with the realisation that Malfoy's right. Knees suddenly shaky, Harry grabs for a display case.</p><p>"Watch out," Malfoy says before hurrying over to steady Harry's slumping body. "You grabbing at my display cases is how we got into this mess in the first place." He gets his shoulder under Harry's arm, then lifts him easily and starts walking towards the backroom. "Merlin, you're strong. Let's get you sitting down. You look like I do right before I pass out."</p><p>"Why do you know that?" Harry asks, but the words are mumbled and sound distant, everything ringing in his ears. The edges of his vision are greying, and his legs feel terribly far away.</p><p>"Sit down, you idiot," Malfoy says before dumping Harry unceremoniously in a chair. Harry's head makes a satisfactory thump when he lays it down on the scarred wooden table top. He watches with detachment while Malfoy pilots Harry's body as if he's always owned it, none of the discomfort that Harry's feeling evident in the line of Malfoy's borrowed shoulders or the confidence with which he moves his hands through the process of making tea. A few minutes later, he sets a steaming white mug next to Harry's—Malfoy's—face, then leans back in his chair, expectant.</p><p>"Well?" he asks, gesturing with a grace that seems out of place when worn by Harry's hands. "Drink up, Potter. We've got some things to figure out."</p><p>With a groan, Harry lifts his still spinning head from the table, then fumbles for the mug. The ceramic is hot enough to sting his fingertips, but he takes a deep gulp of the scalding tea anyway. It burns, but somehow, it centers him. The lightheadedness fades, and he takes a second, grateful sip.</p><p>"First," Malfoy says as he waits for Harry to set the mug down on the table, "you're going to have to learn how to run the store."</p><p>"I'm going to have to do <em>what</em> now?"</p><p>"Run the store, Potter, do keep up."</p><p>"The <em>first</em> thing I need to do is find out who attacked us."</p><p>"If you were an Auror, certainly. But you are a potioneer and a shopkeeper, and since you're hopeless at potions, you're going to have to learn how to run the store instead." Malfoy bites at his lip. "Of course, I'll have to make sure to get in before the shop opens up to brew anything needed for the day. The upstairs flat is probably the best option, but we'll need to sort the whole clothes issue before the night's over. Hopefully, Franklin won't balk at Owling me my supplies. He's always been a bit of a stuffed shirt about those things, insists on a face-to-face exchange of goods, even though I've been buying from him for almost three years now. Can't be helped I guess…"</p><p>"Hold <em>on</em>," Harry shouts, the mug and the table rattling under the force of his hands slapping against the tabletop. "What in the hell are you talking about, Malfoy?"</p><p>Malfoy blinks at Harry for a moment, then frowns, looking confused. "I'm talking about you pretending to be me, of course."</p><p>"Why"—the word sounds like it's falling through a rusted pipe, rattling from between Harry's clenched teeth to clatter onto the table between him and Malfoy—"would I do that?"</p><p>"I thought we'd established this already. No one's going to believe that you're you while you look like me."</p><p>"They will if you tell them who <em>you </em>are."</p><p>"And why would I do that?"</p><p>"I don't know, because it's the decent and right thing to do?"</p><p>Malfoy scoffs. "Only if by 'decent and right thing' you mean 'a surefire way to end up locked in the Department of Mysteries for the rest of our natural lives.'"</p><p>"They won't… That's…"</p><p>Finger pointed at Harry, Malfoy's expression shifts from determined to smug as Harry drifts into silence. "You know I'm right."</p><p>Harry’s lack of a response is answer enough.</p><p>"Anyway, whoever that man was, he was clearly after you. It makes sense to keep this little mix-up a secret while the…" Malfoy trails off, frowning. "I wonder if I'm the real you, since I'm in your body, or if the real you is your consciousness, and therefore, <em>you're </em>the real you." He shakes his head. "Sorry, that's a bit too existential for this hour of the day. Whether you're the real you or I am, it'll be safer to keep you, in my body, here."</p><p>"Why are you so sure that he was after me? If I remember correctly, you had your fair share of enemies after the war."</p><p>Malfoy laughs. "Aren't they always after you? And anyone who still considers me their enemy would be much more circumspect about an attack against my person than barging into my store in the middle of the day, wearing a ridiculously memorable outfit and waving their wand about. Anyway, it's all moot, isn't it? I can't be seen working here while I'm you. It'll raise too much suspicion. Harry Potter wouldn't deign to slum it around Horizont with his childhood enemy."</p><p>Harry flushes, thinking about all of the times he has wandered around Horizont in the last couple of years, especially in the area surrounding Malfoy's store. Groaning, he rests his head in his hands. "How in the hell are we going to get ourselves back to normal?"</p><p>Malfoy looks at the bucket of potion-infused sawdust. "Well, that's the tricky part. I'll have to isolate the resulting mixture that was formed by the potions combining, then start breaking it down into its different components. I've got records of what was on that shelf, so I'll have a good place to start from, but it's going to take some time to figure out how they might have interacted with each other."</p><p>"And what about me?" Harry takes a careful sip of tea, pleased that it's cooled enough to not burn his tongue any further. "What am I supposed to do during this whole charade?"</p><p>"Contrary to rumour and popular belief, you're the resident subject matter expert on Dark magic, Potter. You're going to figure out what spell that man cast. With that many potions mixing together, there's no way that the additional magic didn't have a part to play in our present situation."</p><p>"The body swap."</p><p>"Yes." Malfoy rolls his eyes. "Though that makes it sound rather juvenile, don't you think? Discorporialisation, perhaps, or consciousness resettlement."</p><p>"Vulcan mind-meld," Harry mutters into his cup, quiet enough that Malfoy can't hear him.</p><p>"You'll have to tell me what you know of the robberies, too."</p><p>Harry chokes on a sip of tea. "What?"</p><p>"I've got to pretend to be you, don't I? You'll be working my job, so it only makes sense that I'll be working yours."</p><p>"Merlin, Malfoy." Harry sets his mug down. "You want to play at being an Auror?"</p><p>"I want to hold up my end of this arrangement, Potter. Unless you take holidays regularly?" Malfoy raises his eyebrow, then drops it when Harry shakes his head no. "I thought not. So, while you're in here selling potions, I'll be chasing after the Wizarding World's Most Wanted or whatever it is you do from day-to-day."</p><p>Harry groans and swallows down the rest of the tea, wishing it was something stronger.</p><p>"Okay, let's say we go along with this insane plan of yours," Harry says as he pushes away the now empty mug. "We're going to have to let at least one other person in on it. There's no way I'll be able to run this shop after one day's worth of training, and you're going to make a mess of criminal justice if you're left on your own." When Malfoy scoffs, Harry glares at him. "You know I'm right. And we need a contingency plan, too, just in case something happens."</p><p>"Something like…?"</p><p>"Like this man comes back and finishes what he started, or one of us gets hit by the Knight Bus, or whatever. Just… Worst case scenario, we need someone we can trust to know about what happened."</p><p>Malfoy looks pensive for a moment, then nods. "You make a valid argument, Potter. Who do you have in mind?"</p><p>"Ron, probably," Harry says as he rakes his hand through his hair. It falls into easy sheets of silken blond order, and he, for the first time ever, misses the way his own hair tangles around his fingers. He can't tell how he feels about knowing what Malfoy's hair feels like running through them instead. "He's my partner on the force, and if he knows you're <em>you</em> and not <em>me</em>, then he'll be able to cover for any gaffes while you're on the job."</p><p>"Astoria for me, then."</p><p>Harry blinks. "Your ex-fiancee?"</p><p>"She knows the shop, inside and out. It's been a few years since she's worked here, but she'll be able to pick it up faster than you, I think. She's also got my best interests at heart, no matter how ludicrous those might be. She'll keep you safe."</p><p>"Okay." Bloody hell. "So, we're actually doing this."</p><p>"Look a bit more cheerful about it, Potter. Think of it as an adventure or something."</p><p>"Rather than the disaster it is absolutely going to be?"</p><p>"Precisely." Malfoy grins, and it's boyish and charming, and Harry finds himself deeply unsettled by finding his own face attractive. "Positive thinking and whatnot."</p><p>"Right." Harry spins the mug on the table. "You got any Ogden's?"</p><p>"Yes, thank Merlin." Malfoy stands. "I never thought you'd ask."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Draco is pleasantly surprised to wake up without much of a hangover, if any. He's never handled his liquor well, something about the Malfoy family line not being one that tolerated alcohol in overabundance, and with how much he and Potter had thrown back the night before, he went to sleep expecting a splitting headache, a mouth that tasted like someone else had dumped a rubbish bin in it while he was sleeping, and dry skin. Instead, he rolls out of his bed with unexpected energy. After brushing his teeth—and certainly <em>not</em> jumping at Potter's reflection in his mirror—he walks into the front room of the flat above Magnificent Mixtures to find Potter still asleep, sprawled face-down across the couch they'd Transfigured into a small bed with a blanket bunched around his waist.</p><p>He hasn't lived in this flat for almost two years. Situated directly above the store, it's a simple one-bedroom with a small bathroom, and had been one of the ways he'd cut costs in the early days. Now that the store's successful, though, he's renting a slightly larger flat in Covent Garden's wizarding district and only uses this space for doing the books and whenever he has finicky brews going. Since there was no way he could be seen going to Potter's flat or vice-versa, he and Potter settled here after a night of heavy drinking. Now, surprised by how early it is, Draco leaves Potter to sleep, takes a quick shower, and then goes down to his brewing room.</p><p>The scent of it washes over him as he enters. Tobacco, because everything in the back of the store smells at least a little like it, and then all of the myriad components of brewing. The tang of pewter drying by the sink, the earthy richness of mosses and grasses, plants dried and drying, the bitter, acrid taste on the back of his tongue from the more caustic materials. It's the cologne of a lover, the scent hidden in the folds of his clothing so that Draco can only breathe it in when his nose is pressed into the fabric, hunting for it. And just like a lover, Draco cherishes this space and its scent, all of it his and his alone.</p><p>Shaking off his moment of quiet, simple joy, he gets to work. He's got an entire display of potions to brew and refill, not to mention the need to carefully catalogue the various components as he goes through it, plus the more common potions—Pepper-Up, Hangover Cure, Dreamless Sleep, Wideye—that need to be restocked. He's got a store of most of them, but he'll need to replenish them if he doesn't want to find himself in a bit of a mess later.</p><p>Setting up multiple large cauldrons along his work bench, he starts preparing the common ingredients between them all. He's got Standard Ingredient and <em>Aqua Vitae</em> in three of the four brews, and Bicorn horn and Mandrake root for the Pepper-Up, and Wolfsbane and Billywig stings for the Wideye Potion, and Valerian for the Dreamless Sleep. He sets each component out by its respective cauldron, waiting for the <em>Aqua Vitae</em> and water to heat to their appropriate temperatures. Slowly adding items to each cauldron as he goes, he wanders back and forth from one end of the work bench to the other, until each brew is bubbling away happily, and there's only a slight bit of sweat on Draco's brow.</p><p>"That looks intense," Potter says as he saunters down the stairs. Something about how he inhabits Draco's body gives it an artless grace, as if Potter is settling into the slightly longer arms and legs, the lean breadth of his chest and the narrow expanse of his hips. Draco's body sits easy on Potter, much easier than it had the night before, and Draco tries not to think about his own growing comfort in Potter's skin.</p><p>"It is, a bit." Draco stirs the Dreamless Sleep twice counter-clockwise, watches the resulting swirl of colour, then stirs it another three times. The marbled mix of purple and blue evens out into a soft lavender, and Draco nods happily. "Would you like some tea? I've got about thirty minutes before I need to work with this again."</p><p>Potter stills at the bottom step, hand on the railing, then nods tightly. "Yeah. Yeah, that'd be nice, actually."</p><p>Draco sets the kettle to boiling and pulls a box of Duchy English Breakfast from the cabinet. After setting two tea cups on the counter next to the box, Draco leans his hip against the countertop and watches the kettle instead of Potter, who roams along the edge of Draco's tiny kitchenette like an unwelcome visitor.</p><p>Which, in all fairness, he is. At least somewhat.</p><p>Potter drags his hand over the countertop as he walks towards Draco, eyes peering into the cauldrons. He presses his finger to the bridge of his nose, then flushes red. At Draco's raised eyebrow, he shrugs. "I keep forgetting I don't have glasses."</p><p>Draco pushes Potter's frames further up his nose and sighs. "You know, you could fix your vision with a simple charm."</p><p>"I think they look distinguished."</p><p>Draco takes the glasses off, then peers at the simple, black frames for a moment before putting them back on. "You could do better."</p><p>"Right." Potter's frown is absolutely going to leave wrinkles. "So, what's the plan for today?"</p><p>The kettle starts to rattle on the hob, steam pouring from the spout, so Draco grabs it and turns off the fire with a wordless, wandless Extinguishing Charm. The flames under the two cauldrons closest to him also go out, and Draco curses before rushing over to reignite them.</p><p>"You okay there, Malfoy?" Potter asks, the question tinted with humour, before walking over to the kettle while Draco fiddles with the heat.</p><p>"Yes, Potter," Draco snaps, finally getting the flame right again on the Dreamless Sleep. "It's your damned magic. It's just as unmanageable as your hair."</p><p>"Very funny." Potter reaches for the tea, then stops. "Is this from Waitrose?" He looks at Draco, grey eyes wide. "You shop at Waitrose?"</p><p>"Yes, of course." He takes the tea from Potter, then adds it to the tea pot with brusque, familiar movements. "It's cheaper than Rosa's stuff, and it tastes better."</p><p>"Right." Potter's looking at Draco like he's got something on his face. Idly, Draco reaches up to his cheek and brushes at it, then walks back to the cauldrons, checking on the brews though there's nothing for him to do for another twelve minutes. "So, the plan for today."</p><p>"The plan." Draco swallows, suddenly awkward. "The shop doesn't open for another two hours, which gives us enough time to Owl Astoria and Weasley and fill them in."</p><p>Potter groans, but takes the tea kettle and the two mugs, their handles looped over his pointer finger, to the small table. He sits, then pushes the other chair away from the table with his foot, waiting for Draco to join him before pouring the tea. "How well do you think that'll go over?"</p><p>"Astoria will be fine," Draco says as he waits for the tea to cool. "She's always up for a bit of adventure, especially if it's at least a little at my expense. As for Weasley, I never know what to expect from him. Hopefully he won't throttle me, since it would be too much like throttling you."</p><p>"He wouldn't…" Potter sighs. "Ron'll listen, as long as we're straightforward… and you talk first."</p><p>"To avoid the throttling."</p><p>"There won't be any throttling. Just… Y'know, tell him to sit down, offer him tea or something to eat, whatever. As long as you're slightly normal about it, he won't cause any trouble."</p><p>Draco takes a long, slow sip, then hides his smile in the cup when Potter curses on the other side of the table.</p><p>"Okay, fine, I'll Owl him now. The sooner we get this over with, the better."</p><p>"I completely agree. I'll contact Astoria shortly. It would be best if we could get them both to arrive at around the same time. I'd prefer to not have to try and explain this twice."</p>
<hr/><p>Nearly thirty minutes later, Auror Ronald Weasley barges through the front door of Malfoy's Magnificent Mixtures, wand drawn and standard issue intimidating snarl firmly in place.</p><p>"Malfoy!" His raised voice makes the displays closest to him shake. "Come out this second, or I'll be forced to put you under arrest for the unlawful detention of a law enforcement officer and kidnapping."</p><p>Already walking through the back door into the shop floor, Draco rolls his eyes. "Good to see you, too, Weasley."</p><p>"Harry?" Weasley's wand dips a second later, confusion quickly overwriting his righteous fury. "Did you call me <em>Weasley</em>?"</p><p>Potter comes sprinting from the backroom, sliding to a halt next to Draco with his hands outstretched towards Weasley. "Ron, I told you, everything is fine."</p><p>"What the hell is going on?" Ron's wand darts from Potter to Draco, then back again. "Why are you both calling me by the wrong name?"</p><p>"Did you even bother to read the letter he sent you?" Draco asks, delighting a bit at the growing confusion on Weasley's face.</p><p>"I didn't really explain it," Potter mutters. He flinches when Draco glares at him. "I thought we were only going to go through this once."</p><p>"Someone tell me what the hell is happening before I bring you both in," Weasley says. He glances at Draco with a wince. "Sorry, mate."</p><p>"Merlin, you're both idiots. How you managed to kill the Dark Lord remains a mystery to me. Weasley, put your damned wand down. I've tea in the back, and Potter and I will be more than happy to explain what's going on as soon as you stop threatening bodily harm and/or incarceration."</p><p>The bell above the door chimes a moment later, and Astoria glides into the shop, the morning sunlight turning her dark brown hair golden along the edges. Her shoulders are covered by a deep forest green capelet trimmed in white fur, and as she straightens it with gloved hands, she looks at Weasley, then to Potter and Draco, and sighs.</p><p>"Draco, darling," she says as she walks past an even more confused Ron to stand in front of Draco, "we're going to have to replace these frames. They're doing absolutely nothing for those eyes."</p><p>"Hey!" Potter takes a step forward. "I like my glasses."</p><p>Glancing at him with a mix of pity and annoyance, Astoria snatches the offending accessory from Draco's face without looking. "That's a shame. I'd always heard that Harry Potter was as intelligent as he is handsome, but that's clearly a misapprehension. Let me get my wand out, and we'll see what we can do about these abysmal things."</p><p>She brushes past Draco and through the door to the backroom, leaving the three men frozen in various states of befuddlement. Draco's the quickest to recover, and as he turns to follow Astoria into the back, he hears Ron ask in a quiet, subdued voice, "He said there's tea, yeah?"</p>
<hr/><p>Astoria spends most of the time Draco and Potter are explaining what's happened fiddling with Potter's glasses. She changes their shape, their material, their size, flipping through various styles over and over again until, finally satisfied, she passes them back to Draco, who blinks as his vision finally clears.</p><p>"Much better," she states before delicately plucking a small tea cake from the untouched plate in the center of the table. "So, you've swapped bodies. I'll admit, I'm more than a little intrigued."</p><p>Weasley finishes his third cup of tea and holds his empty mug out to Potter, who dutifully refills it before standing up to brew a new pot. "You've got shit luck, mate."</p><p>"You're telling me," Potter says after turning off the water. "So, while we're stuck like this, we're going to need both of you to help."</p><p>"I can more than handle the shop on my own." Astoria wipes non-existent crumbs from her fingers. "I'll teach you how to ring up customers and how to smile so you don't look like you're going to murder anyone, and we should get on splendidly."</p><p>Weasley fiddles with his mug, then rubs at the bridge of his nose. "I don't know what we're going to do. Honestly, I should bring the both of you in so that our forensics team can look at you, but"—he holds up a restraining hand before Potter can finish opening his mouth to protest—"since that's not an option, I guess I'll do my best to keep Malfoy out of trouble." He looks at Draco, then shakes his head. "This is so bloody weird."</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"Have you considered using Polyjuice Potion?" Astoria asks as she leans back in her chair, fingers idly carding through the fur edging on her capelet. "You could just transform back into your correct bodies until you manage to fix this mess."</p><p>Draco's always been pleased by Astoria's sharp mind, and he finds himself smiling at her for a moment before he lets out a slow breath. "Unfortunately, that's not an option. I had my own version of the Exstimulo Potion on that stand, and the <em>Galanthus Nivalis</em> is going to be mildly active for at least a fortnight."</p><p>"And it's going to react to the Boomslang skin," she says slowly, eyes widening. "That would not end well."</p><p>"Why not?" Weasley asks, brow furrowed.</p><p>"Since I doubt you're familiar with the intricacies of how the Exstimulo Potion works, or how its components might interact with other ingredients, I'll keep it simple." Draco shifts in his chair. "The most likely event would be a massive, pustulant rash over the parts of our skin that came in contact with the Exstimulo when it spilled. And since I landed face-first into it, and I assume that Potter ended up similarly doused, I don't think either of us would very much appreciate the experience."</p><p>"Not to mention that the worst case scenario," Astoria adds, "would be all of the flesh peeling off of their bones."</p><p>Weasley somehow turns paler.</p><p>"Anyway," Draco continues, "I don't have any Polyjuice brewed. It's not commonly requested, and the ingredients are expensive and hard to obtain. I've got enough in my stores for one batch, which I'll start brewing tonight, just in case, but I'm hoping that we'll have this situation resolved well before it finishes."</p><p>Merlin, if he's stuck in Potter's body for longer than a month… Draco wants to shudder, but he finds he's too worn out for it.</p><p>"And in the meantime?" Weasley asks, his mug spinning between his nervous hands.</p><p>Potter walks over with a new pot of tea. "Malfoy's going to do the leg work, but Ron, you and I are going to keep working our cases. There are still shop owners who need to be questioned about the burglaries, and there's a good chance someone might have seen whoever attacked us."</p><p>"Draco's on good terms with most of the neighbouring shop owners. It's a damned shame he can't do the questioning in his own body." Astoria glances at Draco, eyes softening as she smiles. "They trust him more than they will an Auror."</p><p>"We'll make do," Potter says with a bit of heat. "Shouldn't this place be opening soon?"</p><p>Draco casts a quick <em>Tempus</em> and sighs. "You're right, of course. We've got twenty minutes to get the showroom put back in order."</p><p>"I'll get the displays set up." Astoria rises gracefully, then slips her capelet from her shoulders, holding it out to Potter with a gracefully arched, gloved hand. "If you'd be so kind."</p><p>Wordlessly he takes it, then holds it away from his body as if he's never held a piece of women's outerwear before in his life. Draco rolls his eyes, then snatches it from Potter and heads towards the back coat rack. "Quit harrassing the help, Astoria."</p><p>"<em>Je refuse</em>," she says with a wink before walking out of the backroom.</p><p>"I've got a set of Auror robes in my bag," Weasley says before downing the last of his tea. "Merlin, I can't believe we're actually doing this."</p><p>"It's going to be fine, Ron," Potter says before holding the showroom door open. "How hard can it be?"</p>
<hr/><p>When he was a child, sometime before his fifth year at Hogwarts but after his first, Draco made the terrible mistake of dreaming about becoming an Auror. His father promised that there were great things in store for Draco, that his future was one of bright, limitless growth, that he would change the world around him, and Draco's childish, naive mind decided that meant a future in law enforcement. Where before he had thoughts of flying for Puddlemere United or breaking curses across the vast, uncharted regions of the Amazon, after that, he only saw crimson robes and the pristine white of the Ministry building, and himself standing in the middle of it all, medals gleaming on his chest while men and women oohed and aahed over his impressive arrest record. He practiced defensive and offensive spells, learned the Official Declaration of Wizarding Rights by rote, and even managed to get his mother to let him try on a pair of scarlet robes at Madame Malkins before she sniffed, declared the colour horrid for his complexion, and swept them away in exchange for his usual black.</p><p>Now, years after he gave up the foolish desire, standing in Potter's skin, Draco can't help the twinge of nostalgic dismay that sweeps over him as he finishes doing the last fastening on the spare set of robes Weasley brought. They must be Potter's because they fit in the shoulders like a dream and hang down just above the top of his black dragonhide leather boots. The wand holster settled over his shoulder sits easy and is already becoming a familiar weight against his side. The badge on his left lapel is heavy and off-center, though, and he twists it against the fabric, trying to get it to feel like it belongs there.</p><p>This is such a farce.</p><p>This moment is somehow even worse than his panicked sixth year, even though he's standing in his own shop, safe and sound and not plotting the murder of his school's headmaster. When he was an idiot child, he at least had the sense to stay silent about the whole bloody thing. He slunk along hallways and disappeared into the Room of Hidden Things, went through the motions of being a student while doing his best to be a loyal Death Eater. That he wasted away to almost nothing, his eyes little more than sunken holes in his skull, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut, hadn't meant anything at the time. It was nothing more or less than he deserved for the awful things he did and the awful things he was planning to do. His shame had been his secret, until it had been laid bare on the floor of the Astronomy Tower, and Dumbledore had held out a hand, and Draco… But that's all in the past, and he's moved on from it and onto something new. Something better.</p><p>But this… No, this is infinitesimally worse, because this time, Draco won't be hiding in the corners and disappearing into shadows. This time, he's going to be right out in the open, head held high, shoulders back, glasses pushed tightly to the bridge of his borrowed nose while he pretends to not only be an Auror, but also the Saviour of the Wizarding World.</p><p>They're so fucked.</p><p>Weasley's waiting for Draco outside of the small bathroom in the back, his arms crossed and brow furrowed before he even sees Draco open the door. When his head lifts, his frown worsens.</p><p>"You look like you've seen a ghost."</p><p>Draco scoffs. "As you well know, we spent most of our childhood around ghosts. If I were going to expire from fright, you'd do better to pick something a little more sinister."</p><p>"Fine," Weasley snaps. "You look like you've seen a Hippogriff. Pillock."</p><p>"Much better." Draco reaches for his right arm and rubs at the scar that should be there but isn't. "Very effective."</p><p>"Honestly. How do you expect this to go?" Weasley runs his hand through his hair, sending it into a riotous mess of red.</p><p>"Honestly?" Draco sniffs. "Very poorly indeed. I expect I'll be found out within the first five minutes, then sent off to Azkaban for impersonating an officer of the law."</p><p>"I can't believe I'm about to say this, but you're absolutely bloody right. I think this is the first time we've ever agreed about something. What an idiot idea. I don't know what you and Harry are thinking with this nonsense."</p><p>"If you have a better alternative, I am all ears. But since you've yet to come up with anything else for us to do, we'll have to make do. Now, let's forget we saw eye-to-eye about anything, ever, and get this damned thing over with."</p><p>Weasley nods, then walks into the showroom, shoulders a tight line of tension and determination. Draco tries to mimic the look, but expects he fails. Still, he does his best to appear confident as he trails after Weasley.</p><p>Astoria has already set the empty display to rights, having relocated other potions from their various shelves and cupboards to the empty spaces left by Potter's disastrous fall the day before. Draco gives them a quick survey, then grabs a dark green bottle from the shelf.</p><p>"Darling," he says cautiously, "can you explain why this particular bottle is no longer in its locked and warded cupboard?"</p><p>"Hm?" Astoria looks up from the till, eyebrows raised in apparent innocence. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."</p><p>"This"—the bottle gleams with a dark light in his hand—"is one of the strongest lust potions you can purchase legally. Perhaps it should stay where someone can't misappropriate it."</p><p>"Ah, I see."</p><p>"I'm sure you do."</p><p>Sighing, she closes the till drawer. "You're no fun anymore."</p><p>"I'd like to keep my license to operate, if possible."</p><p>"There are also two Aurors here," Potter says from near the front door, "witnessing."</p><p>"Everyone knows that eyewitness testimony is highly suspect and subject to tampering," Astoria says with a nonchalant hand wave. "My lawyers would have me out by the end of the first hearing."</p><p>"Of course they would." Weasley looks to Potter as if he can help, but the Boy Who Lived just shrugs. "C'mon, Malfoy. We're late for our patrol."</p><p>"Have a lovely day oppressing the citizenry!" Astoria chirps, delicate hand raised in a small wave that's in direct contrast to the wide grin on her face.</p><p>"Enjoy being a capitalist shill!" Draco replies in a similar tone, startling a laugh from Potter.</p><p>The chime above the door mixes with Potter's laughter as Draco and Weasley leave, and Draco thinks, if only for a moment, that the sound of bells and Potter's surprised glee might be the highlight of his day.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harry hates to admit it, even to himself, but Astoria Greengrass is one of the most intimidating people he's ever met, and that's saying quite a lot. Her eyes seem to track him whenever he's not looking. He can feel them on his back like a gentle but persistent touch, yet as soon as he turns around, not once is she looking at him. Instead, she's idly flipping through a magazine, or she has her back to him, her long and elegant fingers gliding over the bottles on the display behind the till. He tries to catch her in the reflection of the shop windows while he dusts the bottles lined up in view of the street, but even then he can't manage to do it. It's as if she has a sixth sense for when Harry's looking in her direction, and every time he does she nonchalantly goes about whatever it is she's pretending to do instead of meeting his confused, slightly wary gaze.</p><p>Besides a seeming ability to always know where Harry's looking, she also has an almost supernatural relationship with the shop. Even though Harry's pretty sure she doesn't actually work here, she knows where everything is. She could be casting some kind of locator spell without his notice, but the speed and accuracy she has when finding products forces him to admit that she just <em>knows</em>.</p><p>But it's not only her ability to find things that makes her frighteningly competent. Before a customer is even through the door, their mouth poised to utter whatever request they might have in mind, Astoria's already beaten them to the punch.</p><p>"Yes, of course," she tells an older man, his hat pulled tight to his head, "the Barbadensis Brew is right here."</p><p>"An Aspectus Balm will clear that right up," is directed towards a pock-marked teenager who shifts uncomfortably, his blush covering his face and neck in a deep red as he stammers his thanks.</p><p>"Though I doubt you need it," she says with a winning smile to a deeply wrinkled woman, "we've plenty of Decus Draught in stock."</p><p>Over and over again, she finds exactly what someone needs as soon as she sees them, then has their Galleons delicately collected, change and product placed in hand, and the customer out the door with an efficiency that reminds Harry, startlingly, of Hermione during exam prep.</p><p>He, in stark contrast, has absolutely no idea what he's doing. Though he somehow managed to squeeze out an Outstanding on his Potions N.E.W.T., that was years ago, and he's somewhat steadfastly avoided having to use any potion-brewing skills as an Auror. There was an awful mishap during his first year in the field—a crime scene examination gone so horribly, <em>horribly</em> wrong that it's still whispered about in the halls of the Ministry—and since then, Harry's left the potioneering up to anyone else within reach. He and Ron were partnered together four years ago, and since Ron's always had a better handle on brewing than Harry, they both came to a silent agreement that Harry would be kept away from combustible materials as much as possible.</p><p>Standing in the middle of a brightly lit room filled with innumerable potions in every colour under the sun, Harry feels painfully out of place. Like a bottle with too much dust or a crack along its center, he doesn't <em>belong</em> here, not the same way that Malfoy or Astoria do. The shop and its tidy shelves and well-stocked inventory and its carefully handwritten labels is as much of a confrontation as any of the fights that Harry and Malfoy had when they were boys. He doesn't know what half of these things are, much less what they do, and the painful evidence of his lacklustre skill and sorely lacking knowledge forces Harry to admit to himself that this whole pretend-to-be-Malfoy thing might be a <em>bit </em>harder to pull off than he'd originally thought. So instead of trying to figure out what all is in the shop and whether or not any of it can kill him, Harry falls back to something he <em>is</em> good at.</p><p>Cleaning.</p><p>With Astoria expertly manning the till and the customers, he wanders around the showroom with a rag and a bottle of cleaning solution he found in the back, spraying down glass shelves and studiously wiping fingerprints and smudges away until everything gleams. Of course, that only kills enough time to get him to lunch, and by then, he can't handle the elusive weight of Astoria's eyes on him any longer.</p><p>"Go on," he says as he approaches the counter, setting the bottle of glass cleaner and the stained towel down next to the till. "Just say it already."</p><p>Though her expression doesn't change very much, it suddenly gains weight. The subtle arch of her eyebrow, the quick twitch at the corner of her mouth, the way her dark brown eyes gleam as they move from the top of his head to the toes of his feet, it all makes the small hairs on the back of Harry's neck stand on end. He feels <em>seen</em> in a way he hasn't since Hagrid walked through the door of a ramshackle hut on Harry's eleventh birthday.</p><p>"Harry James Potter," she finally says before leaning forward. Her forearms and hands rest on the counter, fingers gently laced together. "Auror extraordinaire. The wizarding world's golden boy. The Master of Death."</p><p>Harry rolls his eyes. "Are you going somewhere with this?"</p><p>"Oh, I don't know. Just trying to understand who you are beneath all of those titles."</p><p>He holds his arms out, gesturing to his body before realising that it's not his, it's Malfoy's, and then he's left feeling awkward and uncomfortable, and the flush in his cheeks is warm enough to sting.</p><p>Astoria raises an eyebrow. "I see. That does explain some of it."</p><p>"Some of what?"</p><p>"Don't fret about that. That pretty face of yours doesn't need the wrinkles."</p><p>"I don't—I'm not—"</p><p>She laughs, bright and delighted like sunlight through crystal. "This is so refreshing. I'm never able to fluster Draco anymore. The man's immune, I swear. But this"—she laughs again—"this is such a treat."</p><p>"If all you're going to do is mock me, I'll go back to cleaning."</p><p>"Oh, don't get your knickers in a twist. Merlin, you Auror types are so tight-laced."</p><p>"It comes with defeating Dark wizards and stopping people from being killed because of their bloodline."</p><p>"Our tax money, hard at work."</p><p>"You are impossible."</p><p>"Just improbable," she says with a delicate sniff. "It's not like you're giving me much to work with here. So far, all I've learned is that you're awful at potions."</p><p>"And how have you learned that?"</p><p>"Well, first because you didn't deny it, but more importantly"—she tilts her chin to the front—"you've put at least three potions up in the window that are highly reactive when exposed to light, heat, or both. I give them another, oh, twenty minutes before they start exploding."</p><p>"What?!"</p><p>"And," she continues, barely looking at his panicked face, "you've sprayed that cleanser all over the counter by the loose ingredients."</p><p>"Yeah. It was a mess over there."</p><p>"That cleaner is <em>ammonia-</em>based. If you haven't been careful with where you've sprayed it, you've likely contaminated at least half of Draco's stock, and he will not be happy to find out that you've made a mess of ammonium salts out of his stores."</p><p>"How do you know all of this?" Harry asks, agog.</p><p>"How do you not? You had to pass your Potions N.E.W.T., yes?" At his blank expression, she sighs. "What do you know about my family, Mr Potter?"</p><p>Frowning, he tries to think. He remembers Daphne from Hogwarts, but nothing jumps out from that memory, other than her disdain for Hermione and other Muggle-born students. Other than that, he has no idea what the Greengrass family is about.</p><p>He settles on saying, "Not much," and hopes that Astoria won't be too brutal about whatever lesson she's about to teach him.</p><p>"A long time ago, some ancient scion of my house decided to be an unmitigated arse to some other unknown scion of some other ancient wizarding house. And, as these things tend to go, there was a duel or some other such nonsense, and my illustrious forebearer ended up with a blood curse. One that, no matter how much my family has tried, has been impossible to remove." She starts pulling her gloves from her hands, and as her pale skin is revealed, Harry gasps.</p><p>Her skin is so white it's almost translucent, and so thin that the veins running beneath it are a dark contrast to her flesh. Only, instead of being thin traceries of blue, they're black as ink.</p><p>"It's a bit grisly, isn't it?" She sighs, turning her hand over again and again in the bright sunlight streaming in from outside. "You get used to it, of course, but it is a shock the first time."</p><p>"I don't… I knew Daphne, and she…"</p><p>"It doesn't affect every member of the family, just a lucky few." She puts her gloves back on, seemingly untouched by Harry's alarm. "Draco and I have been researching a cure for years. It's led to a bit of an in-depth expertise when it comes to potions, especially their medicinal qualities."</p><p>"Are you…"</p><p>She rolls her eyes. "I'm not doing anything as gauche as <em>dying</em>, Harold. I've better things to do with my time than waste away. Draco and I have found a compound that stops the disease from progressing any further. As long as I don't take any risks with my health, I'll live a long, happy life."</p><p>"And the…"—Harry looks to her hands, then back to her face—"the side effects?"</p><p>"An unfortunate blemish on an otherwise perfect specimen." She gives Harry a slow perusal. "Much like what will happen to that poor body you're occupying if you keep up with all of the scowling. How Draco will recover from the wrinkles you're leaving, I do not know."</p><p>His first impression of Astoria Greengrass firmly cemented by their conversation, Harry does his best to keep his expression placid and wrinkle-free. It seems to work because Astoria gives him a gracious smile before reaching for her wand. "Now, Mr Potter," she says, twirling it between her gloved fingers, "what mischief would you like to get up to while Draco is gallivanting about in your body?"</p><p>"Mischief?"</p><p>A second later, something shatters in the front window, and Harry jumps.</p><p>Astoria laughs. "Oh, I forgot about the potions! How wonderful!"</p>
<hr/><p>Even though Harry asks <em>very nicely</em>, Astoria refuses to tell him what other potions are liable to explode. After cleaning up the glass from the first one, Harry clears the front window display he'd rearranged earlier, setting every bottle in the back of the store where the light can't reach them, then carefully reads through the labels. Malfoy's handwriting is refined and easy to decipher, but Harry still struggles to figure out which ones need to stay where he's stashed them.</p><p>The repetitive nature of reading label after label does give Harry the opportunity to let his mind wander from the booby traps he'd accidentally set up for himself to the more pressing issue of who the hell attacked Malfoy and him the day before. Idly twirling potions around in his hands, he starts stepping through what he can remember of the day before.</p><p>Their assailant was a bit taller than Harry, and thin, and the unknown man's casting had been quick and precise. His voice, for the brief moment that Harry heard it, wasn't familiar, and though Harry's certain he'll recognise it if he hears it again, there's no telling if the man cast a spell to disguise it when he'd entered the shop. Whoever he was, he'd clearly been there for a reason. Wizards don't walk around crowded commercial districts wearing all black and keeping their face covered for shits and giggles. And the way he strode into the shop, confident and comfortable, wand raised…</p><p>Whatever spell Malfoy intercepted, it was cast with <em>intent</em>.</p><p>And that's another thing that has Harry scratching his head. Malfoy had stepped in <em>front </em>of the attack, putting himself between danger and Harry. It hadn't made sense yesterday, and it's no clearer today. Harry's head injury only makes it worse. He'd foolishly, amateurishly, slipped in the resulting mess while pursuing the attacker, knocking himself senseless in the process.</p><p>Head pounding, mind racing, Harry struggled to find sleep the night before. In the entire time that Harry's known Malfoy, he'd never gone out of his way to save Harry from danger.</p><p>The unkind thought makes Harry flinch, because it's patently untrue. He'd love to think of Malfoy as the spoiled brat he was during their sixth year at Hogwarts, but Harry has to admit that Malfoy changed after Dumbledore's death. He may have been a prick at school, but he saved Harry—if not Hermione or Ron—when they'd been thrown at Bellatrix Lestrange's feet like an offering. He tried to save Crabbe and Goyle from the Room of Requirement, though he only saved one. Harry never understood their friendship, but Malfoy always looked out for the two brutes masquerading as children in his own way. Then there was Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini, two more people to add to Malfoy's small circle of, apparently, true friends. And now, years later, Malfoy's managed to help Astoria stave off her blood curse, another sign of kindness from someone that Harry hadn't thought it possible of. Harry doesn't know why Astoria broke off the engagement. There hadn't been much written about the break in the <em>Prophet</em>, but it only adds to Harry's confusion. If it hadn't been for his relationship with the Weasleys, almost an adopted son to Molly and Arthur, he's not entirely sure he would've been able to get over that initial awkwardness after he and Ginny broke up. But Malfoy had shrugged his way out of an engagement and into an apparently close friendship, and though it pains him, it makes Harry respect the man.</p><p>And now, this. Malfoy taking a single, unexpected step between Harry and an unknown attacker with his wand raised, no sign of fear on Malfoy's face or in the line of his shoulders, his back straight and vision clear, and then his entire body wracked with red light and pain. Harry doesn't know what this is, what it means that Malfoy decided to protect Harry over himself, if that means that maybe, perhaps, Harry's misjudged something integral to their relationship, a twist in intention setting his entire worldview spinning.</p><p>But Harry's not completely off-kilter. Someone <em>had </em>come into Malfoy's tidy little shop on a bright, shining afternoon and attacked him. It's possible that Malfoy hadn't managed to shake all of his enemies after the war, even after falling so far from upper-class, pure-blood graces. He might've been brought low, but that kind of degradation doesn't always satisfy when someone's out for blood instead.</p><p>And though Malfoy brought up the possibility that their attacker was after Harry, rather than himself, Harry's hesitant to believe it. After all, no one knew that Harry was going to be at Malfoy's shop. The place wasn't even on Harry's list of establishments to check for eyewitnesses. And until this morning, he and Ron were to be working the robberies jointly. They split the job at random, flipping a Galleon to see who'd be stuck in the office with the paperwork and who'd be out in the field. At the time, Harry considered himself the lucky one, but as he looks down along the lines of Malfoy's body, as he moves it as if it were his own, he thinks Ron probably came out ahead on this one.</p><p>Though, Harry thinks with a smirk that feels like it actually belongs on his borrowed face, Ron <em>is</em> stuck with Malfoy now. The idea shouldn't brighten his mood as much as it does.</p><p>Of course, Harry's also stuck with Malfoy, at least in the physical sense. Though being in his body has gotten less and less uncomfortable, Harry can't help but be reminded that this skin isn't his, that the muscles and bones he moves don't belong to him. And as much as he hates to admit it, he's more than a little intrigued by this body and the way it shifts beneath Malfoy's clothes. He hadn't peeked the night before, no more than he needed to to get changed for bed and relieve his bladder, but the temptation… Safe to say, Harry has more than a few reasons he would like to find a fix for their situation and soon.</p><p>Harry continues to sort through potions bottles, helplessly noting the elegant line of Malfoy's fingers, the graceful motion of his hands. Even with Harry piloting them, they still have a refined way of moving, as if they've done this same, repetitive motion so many times that the muscle memory has taken over. As soon as Harry thinks it, though, he fumbles the bottle in his hands, nearly dropping it onto the fully-stocked shelf.</p><p>"Oh, <em>Draco</em>, darling," Astoria calls from the till, causing Harry to jump. "I don't think you meant to put that there, did you?"</p><p>Harry looks at the potion cradled in his hands. He's lost track of which potion he's shelving and squints at the label, trying to figure out what, exactly, he's holding. "No?" he says, voice rising on the single syllable.</p><p>"I think"—Harry can hear her teeth clenching—"you mean to put that Babbling Beverage on the shelf to your <em>left</em>, where it won't be next to the Enervating Draught. You know how unpredictable those two brews can be, and I'm <em>sure</em> you can imagine the resulting mess if they were to mix."</p><p>"Right. Of course." Though Harry can't imagine the mess, he sets the bottle down on his left, then steps away from the display slowly. He has no idea how many of the potions he's rearranged, and judging by the icy chill hidden beneath the surface of Astoria's voice, he's probably better off fleeing. "I'll just… I'm going to take lunch."</p><p>"That's a lovely idea, dear." She turns her attention back to the young woman at the counter, smiling in a particularly disarming way. "You know how men can be. So easily distracted. That'll be four Galleons, miss."</p><p>Harry steps into the backroom, thankful that he won't have to sell any other potions for at least a few minutes, and falls into one of the chairs around the small table. The cauldrons that Malfoy had set up before leaving are bubbling along cheerfully, and though Harry's at least slightly familiar with each of the brews, he doesn't even consider touching them. He'd probably muck that up, too, and as Astoria sweeps into the room in a graceful glide, heading straight to the cauldrons, he knows he made the right choice when she clucks her tongue quietly, turns the heat down on one cauldron and up on another, and then starts the kettle.</p><p>Hip perched on the counter, she crosses her arms and stares at Harry with a pointed focus that makes Harry feel like he's laying on the grass of Hogwarts, Neville's Remembrall clenched in his hand, McGonagall hurrying toward him with storm clouds in her eyes.</p><p>"I think," she says slowly, "you should work the till. Much less likely to blow up the store or poison a customer that way."</p><p>"Probably a good idea," Harry reluctantly agrees.</p><p>"Let's get to it, then," she says as the kettle starts screeching. "But first, a cuppa."</p>
<hr/><p>Once he's safely distanced from anything potentially deadly, Harry finds that working at Draco's shop is, shockingly, relaxing. Astoria packages whatever potion is purchased, and Harry handles the money, and as soon as they find a rhythm, they fall into it easily. Astoria's not much of a talker, and she hums quietly to herself as she wanders around the store rather than trying to engage Harry in conversation. It gives him time to mentally work his cases, his investigator's mind flipping through details as he waits for the next customer. Most of his cases are large operations—an illegal potions market in Salisbury, a smuggling ring for controlled magical substances between England and Germany, a series of underground werewolf cage fights—and while he knows them in and out, most of the work's already been done or is the responsibility of other Aurors in the department. The string of robberies in Knockturn and Horizont, though, are new and easy to focus on while he's nestled in the epicenter of the crime spree.</p><p>This string of robberies is also more of a puzzle that he'd expected, especially considering how small each of the thefts were. The Fountain of Fair Fortune lost the most to the thief, but even though the other break-ins resulted in less loss of property than the first, they're their own enigmas. Cobb and Webb's hadn't lost any inventory, but the thief left an Acromantula egg in the middle of the shop floor. Moribund's was seemingly untouched until the eponymous proprietor came in to check for anything missing and was suddenly unable to speak. While waiting for Ministry Curse-Breakers to remove whatever spell had stolen his voice, Moribund found a handful of papers absent from the locked drawer where he kept them, though he refused to say anything about what they were for or why they were important, even after his voice was found and returned to him. And then the locksmiths… It wasn't just the front door's lock that was picked. Every single bolt, latch, and catch in the store was opened, and no matter how much the owner tried to close them again, they refused to lock.</p><p>It is, without a doubt, one of the oddest cases that Harry's ever been assigned, and as the sun begins to set and the street outside Malfoy's shop falls into golden darkness, Harry wonders if he's ever going to figure it out.</p><p>The bell above the door chimes, knocking Harry from his distracted musing. Checking the small permanent <em>Tempus</em> behind the counter, Harry shouts, "Shop's closed, I'm afraid. You'll need to come back tomorrow."</p><p>"You idiot," his own voice answers. Harry looks up, his eyes and mouth widening as soon as the Disillusionment Charm fades from Malfoy and Ron, and he falls silent.</p><p>Malfoy's Auror robes are shredded around his ankles, his boots covered with deep scratches. The red is stained black with what appears to be soot around the shoulders and collar, and Harry's pretty sure there's an ember still blazing at Malfoy's right cuff. Ron stumbles in after Malfoy, shutting the door firmly. His red hair is singed at the edges and half of his right eyebrow is completely missing, his robes nearly as ruined as Malfoy's.</p><p>"What in Godric's name happened to you?" Harry asks.</p><p>"Whisky first," Ron groans, his hand shaking as he touches his missing eyebrow, "and then storytime."</p><p>"I love a good story," Astoria says from the corner of the shop. She hurries over to the till, touches it with her wand, and the sign at the front of the store flips to <em>Closed</em>. "Let's get you two settled, yes? It looks like you've had a hell of a day."</p><p>It startles a laugh from Malfoy, and then Ron bends in half, snickering into his knees, and together, the pair of them devolve into a mass of near-hysterical giggles in front of the door.</p><p>"Um," Harry says eloquently.</p><p>Astoria hums in response, staring at the pair of them. "Quite. You get the ginger one, I'll take the other."</p><p>Harry hurries to Ron and helps him stand upright. Worn out from his laughing bout, he sags as soon as Harry has an arm around him.</p><p>"Why do you smell like sulfur?" Harry asks, his nose wrinkling at the heavy scent of rotten eggs.</p><p>"Later," Ron groans. "I seriously need a drink."</p><p>"And a wash," Malfoy offers helpfully as he pushes himself into the backroom of the shop. Astoria sets out four glasses on the small table, a bottle of Ogden's in her hand. She pours two fingers into the first glass, then slides it towards Ron while he collapses into a chair. She gestures with the bottle towards Malfoy, who waves her off and heads over to the brewing potions instead. Not bothering to ask Harry if he'd like a drink, she pours two more glasses and hands him one before taking a seat. Harry sits in the remaining chair just as Ron removes his ruined robes, revealing his burnt shirt beneath.</p><p>"Good lord," Harry says, glass of whisky forgotten as he reaches for his best friend and turns him so that Harry can see more of the damage. A large burn covers Ron's left shoulder, the white linen shirt burnt away around the injury, which is black and cracked and oozing blood. "What in the hell happened?"</p><p>Ron downs his glass, then winces as he slams it onto the table. With shaking fingers, he grabs the ruined shirt sleeve and tears it off. Wand already in his hand, Harry starts casting Healing spells as Ron leans back in his chair with a sigh.</p><p>"Thanks, mate," he says, eyes shut. "Malfoy, you tell them. I'm fucking knackered."</p><p>"Seeing as your family got us into this mess, I sincerely think you should be the one to share our tale of woe," Malfoy drawls. He glances away from his potions to look at Ron, and something like pity crosses his face. "But if you insist."</p><p>He pulls out a stool from under the workbench and perches easily on it as if he weren't also singed and torn up and exhausted. Wordlessly, he Summons the Ogden's and takes a healthy drink after it lands in his hand. Exhaling loudly, he cradles the bottle between his spread thighs and starts speaking.</p><p>"After being told <em>multiple times</em> that this was going to be a very boring, dull day, Weasley decided to spice things up."</p><p>"I decided to say <em>hullo </em>to my<em> brother</em>," Ron groans. He steals Harry's glass and takes a sip. "If you're going to tell the story, at least tell it right."</p><p>"Weasley decided to go visit his highly unpredictable, chaotic brother in his highly unpredictable, chaotic joke shop. Which was fine, until the gathered crowd realised that the Boy Who Lived was standing in the middle of a very busy commercial institution and started a stampede."</p><p>"There were four people, Malfoy. They just wanted autographs."</p><p>"Which I was unprepared to provide." Malfoy takes another drink. "I've yet to practice Potter's signature, and I'm certain they wouldn't have appreciated the joke of me signing my own."</p><p>"How did you get burnt?" Harry asks as he finishes healing Ron's shoulder. "Was it fireworks?"</p><p>"Demon Box," Ron says wearily. "Malfoy chucked one at a fifteen-year-old girl."</p><p>"You are underselling the maniacal light that was in her eyes. I was seconds away from grievous bodily harm, and, as you are well aware, this body is a lease, rather than a purchase, and I wasn't in the mood to cause it any damage."</p><p>"So you threw a <em>demon</em> at a <em>child</em> for Harry's sake?" Ron's half of an eyebrow goes up. "Right. Of course. How rude of me to assume otherwise. Your selfless actions should be rewarded."</p><p>Astoria interrupts before Malfoy can spit out whatever angry retort he has brewing. "I thought those things were safe. Just a gimmick."</p><p>"Until you feed them," Harry says helpfully. Ron and Draco both glare at him, but Astoria perks up in interest. "Then they get completely uncontrollable."</p><p>"Which is why having demons in a store that sells <em>sweets</em>," Malfoy says firmly, "is one of the most idiotic ideas I've ever heard in my entire life."</p><p>"You should've seen it." Ron stares into the middle distance, eyes going vague and wide. "It was like you with the trolley the first time on the Hogwarts Express. There was so much packaging…"</p><p>"Anyway, as it was our <em>job </em>to subdue the creature after it got into the sweets, Weasley and I jumped into the fray."</p><p>"Looks like the fray came out on top," Astoria says. "Did you… defeat it?"</p><p>"Mostly." Ron finishes Harry's whisky, then tries to Summon the bottle from Malfoy, who gainfully holds onto it until it wrenches itself free and nearly hits Harry in the head. "We got it back in the box, at least. George said he'd take care of the rest."</p><p>"At least your adoring public got a show," Malfoy adds wearily. "I'm sure it'll be all over the <em>Prophet</em> tomorrow."</p><p>"Robards is going to be furious," Harry says slowly. "Merlin, he's going to rip you a new one."</p><p>Ron sighs. "Probably."</p><p>Harry takes his glass back and pours Ron another two fingers. "Take it slow, or you'll have to add a hangover to the mess tomorrow's sure to be."</p><p>"And you're getting out of it," Ron says with only a hint of a pout.</p><p>Astoria places a gentle hand on top of Ron's "If it makes you feel any better, he did nearly blow up the store."</p><p>"He did what?" Malfoy startles enough to send the stool rocking. "Potter, if you've done anything irreparable, I will have your hide."</p><p>"You already do," Astoria says with a grin.</p><p>Harry closes his eyes, and waits for the chaotic blend of raised voices to fall away.</p><p>He's waiting for a long while.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Draco wakes up the next morning, his entire body feels like one solid, cramping muscle. If he ever encounters a demon in a crowded store again, he's going to let it eat whatever—and <em>whomever</em>—it wants if it means he'll not have to deal with the aftereffects of strenuous physical activity. He groans and rolls out of bed, nearly falling to the floor when his calf muscle locks up. He staggers to his feet and groans again, arching his back until something low in his spine pops. It eases some of the ache, and he sighs before trudging towards his bathroom. The door is shut and refuses to open when he jiggles the knob. He presses his ear to the door and hears water running.</p><p>"Potter!" he shouts as he bangs his fist against the wood. "If you aren't out of there in five minutes, I'm coming in, locked door or no!"</p><p>"I'll be just a minute. Merlin, Malfoy, can't a wizard wash in peace?" Potter calls back, his voice muffled but his irritation clear.</p><p>Draco scowls, though he knows Potter won't be able to see him, and goes back to his room for a towel and a change of clothes from the small selection Weasley had brought over the day before.</p><p>Draco's not an exceptionally fastidious person. He takes pride in his appearance, yes, but he doesn't need to be perfectly primped and primed for the day. Just a quick shower in the morning, a clean pair of pants, and a delicate application of cologne at his pulse points. But he is a creature of habit, and dammit, it's time for his morning ablutions.</p><p>Storming from his room, his outfit for the day bundled under his arm with a towel, he's already got his fist raised to knock on the bathroom door when it opens. Clenched hand eye-level with Potter's face—or rather, Draco's, since they're still inhabiting each other's bodies—he briefly considers what it means if one wants to punch oneself in the face first thing in the morning.</p><p>"All yours, m'lord," Potter says with a put-on posh accent. Bowing low, he sweeps his arm out behind him, opening the door wider. Draco nearly kicks him but refrains before pushing past the laughing buffoon and slamming the door shut.</p><p>Standing alone in his bathroom, supposedly the victor of this tiny war, Draco feels oddly dissatisfied. That passes into brutal frustration as he catches his reflection in the mirror.</p><p>Or, rather, Potter's.</p><p>The day before, Draco had been too preoccupied with the impending meeting with Astoria and Weasley to really pay his body much attention. The shower then had been perfunctory at best, a quick sweep of soap over skin, shampoo scrubbed through unruly hair. Draco had steadfastly kept his eyes above the waist, including the times he used the loo, and as he gazes into reflected green eyes that have haunted his dreams—both good and bad—for years, he's afraid his better intentions are going to fall very quickly to the wayside.</p><p>Though it feels odd to be so conscious of it, Draco keeps reminding himself that this body isn't his. That this skin, burnished bronze and covering muscles hard from years of exercise, isn't his to touch. The dark, curling hair that twines itself around his ears and shadows his vision, not his to run his fingers through. The steady hands. The long, powerful limbs. The heavy weight between his legs. None of it is his. He has no right to examine or investigate, to learn and discover.</p><p>But Draco wasn't placed in Slytherin house for nothing.</p><p>He takes his t-shirt off, then stares at the expanse of muscle he's revealed. As his hands trail idly across firm pectorals, his fingers stutter over the faded ovoid scar in the center of Potter's chest. The sensation there is numbed and distant, as if whatever caused the divot to form also took any feeling with it. It's slightly wider than his thumb, and Draco wonders if he'll ever know what caused the injury.</p><p>He can guess at the other scars. Though it's been years since the war, Draco recognises spell damage and acid burns when he sees them. There's a glorious starburst of scarring on Potter's left hip, and Draco drags his fingers to its edges as it curls around, stretching thin tendrils almost to the small of Potter's back. Likely a <em>Baubillious Maxima</em>, if Draco remembers the effects of it right. There's a depression in Potter's right thigh just smaller than Draco's thumb that looks like it was caused by a chemical burn of some sort. With more time, Draco's certain he'd be able to figure it out. But he's precariously close to letting his hand drift to where it should absolutely not go, and he pulls away with more than a hint of disappointment.</p><p>The water in the shower is cold enough to sting, but Draco doesn't bother to turn on the hot tap. He shivers through his perfunctory wash, hands exactly where they should be.</p>
<hr/><p>Clean and with his skin still covered in goose pimples, Draco hurries down from the flat to find Potter standing at the hob, staring at the kettle as if it'll boil faster if he looks at it hard enough. Tossing Potter's <em>Reparo</em>ed Auror robes on the coat rack in the corner, Draco leaves him to it and goes to check on the potions bubbling away happily on the worktop.</p><p>The mixture of potions that they'd fallen into is starting to disperse into its various components. The colours are brightening, turning from the dirty dishwater brown he'd managed to remove from the sawdust into flashes of bright yellow and green, with hints of blue and purple along the edges. When he stirs the contents once, there's a pocket of red revealed, followed quickly by orange. A full kaleidoscopic rainbow of colour, on the edge of revealing itself to him. With a perfunctory nod, he turns the heat down just a bit, then moves on to the rest of his brews.</p><p>The Pepper-Up looks done, steaming heavily. As Draco gives it a stir, he can feel the heat from it increase. After a moment, he turns off the burner and moves onto the next cauldron. The Wideye is nearly ready, as is the Hangover Cure, but the Dreamless Sleep needs a bit more time. He gives it a handful of stirs, watching as the potion swirls around the glass rod and turns a deeper shade of purple. Satisfied with the colour, he goes into the storeroom and retrieves a large tray of elegant red glass bottles. They're already labelled, Astoria's handwriting neat and easy to read, and Draco makes a mental note to thank her when she arrives.</p><p>"What've you got there?" Harry asks as the kettle starts jumping about on its burner, steam whistling through the spout at a piercing pitch.</p><p>"Pepper-Up," Draco says as he pulls his decanting supplies from the cabinet under the workbench. "This won't take long."</p><p>With practiced precision, he takes a dose from the cauldron, pours it into one of the bottles, then stoppers it tightly. By the time Potter's settled at the table with a slice of toast and a cup of tea, Draco's emptied half of the cauldron, and there are twenty bottles laid out on the bench in neat, even rows.</p><p>"You're good at that," Potter says as Draco moves onto the next bottle.</p><p>"One does get better with practice."</p><p>"And you've had a lot."</p><p>"Yes, Potter. That's what happens when you run a potions shop. You get very good at potions."</p><p>"Right. Of course."</p><p>Awkward silence falls, and Draco fights the irritation he feels at his curt responses to Potter. It's not like the man is trying to be an idiot about things.</p><p>"It took me awhile, though," Draco finally forces out, eyes locked on the next red bottle in his hand. He pours a measure into it, stoppers it, moves to the next. "The first year I was open, this would've taken me half the day to finish."</p><p>"Oh." Potter sounds surprised, and Draco refuses to turn around and check the man's expression to see if it's because of Draco's improvement at bottling potions or because he's offered information unasked. It doesn't matter either way, Draco tells himself. He doesn't want Potter's praise. "I wouldn't have guessed you had any problems with it. You were always good at potions, when we were at school."</p><p>He does his best not to perk up at the kind words. "It's a bit different when you're brewing large batches like this, but thank you."</p><p>"Is it…" Potter pauses, and Draco can feel his muscles tensing, waiting for whatever blow is about to come. "Does it make you happy?"</p><p>Draco lets out a quiet breath. "It does."</p><p>"Well, that's good, then. I… I'm glad you've found something… I think you deserve it. Happiness, I mean. After everything."</p><p>Draco doesn't turn around, unwilling to see the compassion so clearly carried by Potter's voice. "Thank you. Not many people would agree with you, I'm afraid."</p><p>Potter coughs quietly, and the backroom fills with the sound of bubbling potions and should-be-awkward-but-isn't silence. Draco finishes filling the remaining bottles, and as he places the last one back in the tray, Potter coughs again.</p><p>"So," he finally says, "what've you found out about the mess we fell into?"</p><p>Thankful for the significantly less weighted topic, Draco takes the now empty cauldron to the large work sink near the kitchenette. "Not much, I'm afraid," he says as he fills it with cold, clear water. "There were quite a few medicinal potions on that display—Blood Replenisher, Burn-Healing Paste, Essence of Dittany—which should have counteracted anything damaging in the curse. It's probably why the physical effects of it haven't been that bad." Draco glances up at Potter, frowning. "You haven't been having any pain, have you?"</p><p>"No, nothing out of the ordinary."</p><p>Draco nods, then goes back to cleaning out the cauldron. "Then, of course, there was the Extimulo, and my own version of the Wound Cleaning Potion—vastly superior, I must say; hardly any scarring from that one. But then it starts getting more complicated."</p><p>"It's not complicated enough?"</p><p>Draco huffs out a laugh. "Not terribly, no. All of these potions are meant to heal or improve the strength of the wizard. Their purposes are in line with each other, which means that they <em>should </em>work to the betterment of whomever was doused with them. But since this situation is hardly to either of our betterments, the other potions on that shelf have twisted that purpose into… whatever it is that we're dealing with now."</p><p>"You said the curse would've done something, too. It was meant to harm you." Potter stands and starts pacing, hands stuffed in his pockets, brow furrowed. "Turned inside out by your eyelids, yeah?" At Draco's nod, he continues. "If we're talking about the darker stuff, the colour of the spell will tell us the most about what it was intended to do. Red generally means blood—offensive curses are thankfully very literal—so with the whole turning-inside-out sensation, it might've targeted the vasculature or muscle mass, something meant to rip or rend.</p><p>"So, what happens when a spell meant to tear the flesh from your bones comes into contact with a bevy of potions meant to keep it there, intact? They're at cross purposes, fighting each other."</p><p>"Something else on the shelf must have led to this"—Draco gestures at his body, then Potter's—"being the resolution to that battle." He hurries to his workbench and opens his notebook, running his finger down the inventory list. He's nearly to the bottom when he finds it, and the realisation hits him like a Stunner between the eyes. "Merlin, it must've been the Mopsus."</p><p>"The what?"</p><p>Draco sighs, then shuts the book. "How you managed to pass your Potions N.E.W.T. astounds me. The Mopsus Potion, Potter. Normally, it lets the drinker tap into telekinetic powers. Moving things with your mind, seeing the future—though only briefly and not that far into it—things like that."</p><p>"A mind potion."</p><p>"Correct. With all of the other potions, and then the curse…"</p><p>"The Mopsus twisted the curse's purpose and tore your mind from your body. And the other potions tried to protect you by putting it in <em>mine</em>."</p><p>"And vice versa," Draco says with finality. "I remember blood, but I don't know if that was real or imagined."</p><p>"Real. You scratched me pretty bad, though there's no injury now."</p><p>"That must have been the pathway the Mopsus took. But what has me confused is why our consciousnesses didn't move back into their respective bodies after the curse ended."</p><p>"It could be the curse's influence. If it's still active somehow, still causing harm, the potions might still be preventing us from reverting to our natural bodies."</p><p>"Which means that a counter-potion may not be enough to get us back where we belong. Damn."</p><p>They look at each other in the growing silence, Draco's words echoing through the room as they try to process what exactly that might mean.</p><p>"We need to find whoever did this."</p><p>"Obviously, Potter." Draco moves across the room, still trying to puzzle out his next steps. Even though he's excited to have figured the problem at least partially out, his hands don't shake as he lifts the now clean cauldron from the sink, though he knows it's because he's holding the heavy weight of pewter between his palms. "And just because the curse might have some lingering impact on what's happened between the two of us doesn't mean that a counter-potion is completely unnecessary. That Exstimulo is going to throw a wrench into everything, especially when combined with the Mopsus."</p><p>"You had Mopsus out on a shelf?" Astoria's voice startles Draco enough that he nearly drops the cauldron. He manages to hold onto it, though, setting it back on the workbench with a heavy thunk. "That seems ill-advised."</p><p>"As I am now well aware, darling." He turns and wipes his hands together, removing the last clinging touch of moisture on his palms. "But that's a mistake for the past, and we'll just have to move forward from here."</p><p>"Rather philosophical approach to the problem," Weasley says as he joins Astoria at the small table, "but practical nonetheless. You ready for another day on the beat?"</p><p>"As long as we avoid your brother's shop or any teenaged fans of Potter here, I think I can manage. What about you, Potter? How do you think your second day will go?"</p><p>Potter looks at Astoria, eyebrows raised, and then shrugs when she smiles at him. "I think we'll manage."</p><p>"All right, Malfoy," Weasley says wearily. "Let's get going. We've got witnesses to interview."</p><p>"You're not going to see Robards?" Potter asks, voice tinted with laughter.</p><p>Weasley shakes his head. "No, I'm putting that off as long as possible. We're working on the robbery instead. We'll have to see if we can sneak anything about your attacker into our questioning."</p><p>"That's clever." Draco grabs his Auror robes and slides them on, tugging at the sleeves of his shirt so that everything settles comfortably about his wrists. "Hopefully we'll be able to explain the vast discrepancy in time between the robberies and whenever our masked assailant made his move."</p><p>"We'll make it work." Weasley turns to Potter, reaches towards him as if he's going to place his hands on Potter's shoulders, then stops and stuffs them into his pockets instead. "Mate, if you can do <em>anything </em>to speed this up, I would sincerely appreciate it."</p><p>"I'll do my best." Potter does place his hand on Weasley's shoulder, no hesitation in the motion, and squeezes it conciliatorily. "Trust me, I don't want to stay in Malfoy's body any longer than I have to."</p><p>"Okay." Weasley rests his hand on top of Potter's for a moment, and they stare at each other with an expression somewhere between determined friendship and sickening emotionality. Draco fights the urge to grimace, but he turns to look at Astoria, who rolls her eyes in sympathy.</p><p>Gryffindors. Honestly.</p><p>"We'll see you tonight," Weasley says. "Good luck."</p><p>"You, too."</p><p>Merlin, Draco's going to gag at this rate. Giving up on any hope that Weasley and Potter will move of their own accord, Draco strides forward and grabs Weasley's arm. "Ready for a Side-Along?" he asks, waiting just long enough for Weasley to pull away from Potter in confusion before snapping them both into the gut-wrenching swirl of Apparition.</p><p>A moment later, they appear outside the entrance of Knockturn Alley with a loud crack. Draco's managed to land them in a hidden corner, so though their appearance is loud, they're out of sight from the rest of the milling crowd.</p><p>Weasley wrenches his shoulder out from beneath Draco's palm, cursing. "Merlin, Malfoy. Warn a bloke next time."</p><p>"Oh, quit your caterwauling. We made it safe and sound, no harm done, and you and Potter looked like you were going to fall into each other's eyes if I waited any longer."</p><p>"We weren't… Fucking hell, you are the <em>worst</em>."</p><p>"Not in public, I'm not," Draco says with a grin. "In public, I'm your best friend."</p><p>Weasley scowls for a moment before schooling his expression into one of completely believable contentment. "Too right. C'mon, Hazza. Let's get to work."</p><p>Draco tries not to scowl at the nickname. "Of course, Ronny. Lead the way."</p><p>Weasley walks towards Moribund's, Draco trailing behind. He watches the patrons of Knockturn shy away from them. The red of their robes seems blinding in the darkened Alley, and Draco hates the feeling of hidden eyes on his back. If it bothers Weasley, Draco can't tell. The man strides forward without a pause in his step, shoulders back and face set in a placid expression. He nods politely to passersby, all of them averting their eyes and clinging to the walls of the Alley. His expression unchanging, his professionalism like a suit of armour around him, Draco has to admit that Weasley cuts a rather striking figure of valour and strength.</p><p>He imagines Potter standing in Weasley's place—red hair turning dark and riotous, eyes shifting from the colour of the sky to the deep sea—and a thrum of attraction races through him, then settles as a pounding beat in his arms and legs, moving towards the low center of his gut. Draco cuts it off almost as soon as it comes to life, unwilling to find himself aroused while in the middle of a street. He's reminded too painfully of his shower this morning as he tamps down his inappropriate response and hurries after Weasley, who's waiting in front of Moribund's shop.</p><p>The orange light is on in the front window, though when Weasley tries the knob, the door's locked. He frowns at it, then jiggles it again. "Looks like he's out."</p><p>"No," Draco says as he pushes Weasley out of the way. "You're just doing it wrong."</p><p>Draco presses his hand against the hinged side of the door until it clicks. A small, hidden button disappears into the door, and with a quiet rush of air, the whole thing creaks open, moving on hidden hinges on the side of the door with the knob. The light in the window flashes brighter for a moment, then dims to a softer glow.</p><p>Weasley doesn't say anything, but his raised eyebrows and the purse of his lips tells Draco that he's impressed. Weasley gestures for Draco to go ahead and falls in line after him.</p><p>The interior of the shop is dark and murky with how little light filters through the gloom. Draco's reminded of the Slytherin common room, nestled under the water of the Great Lake. The golden light from the front window catches the edges of the displays, though Draco's uncertain what, exactly, it is that Moribund's sells.</p><p>There are an awful lot of books, but Draco can't make out the titles on the spines. Every time he looks, the letters shift and change, turning from English to some indecipherable script he's never seen before.</p><p>"Can you read that?" he asks Weasley, shifting his gaze from one book to another.</p><p>"Not a word." Weasley reaches for a shelf, then stops himself from touching, his fingers curling back on themselves protectively. "Hermione would love this place."</p><p>"Gentlemen." The voice startles Draco, though he does his best to not show his surprise. A round man with a white, thick beard and hair that erupts from around his head in a halo steps out of the back office. His beady eyes remind Draco of an insect's, and he's got them trained on Draco and Weasley. Grinning, he holds his arms out in welcome before clapping his hands together. "How can I help you this morning?"</p><p>Weasley steps forward. "Mr Moribund. We'd like to ask you some follow-up questions about your recent break in."</p><p>The bright smile on Moribund's face turns brittle. "I've said everything I intend to your colleagues. They had Quick Quills at the time, I'm sure their notes were more than satisfactory."</p><p>Draco shifts uncomfortably, trying to affect something like Potter's usual swagger. "It'll be just a few minutes of your time. Sir."</p><p>Moribund sniffs. "You look familiar." He peers through the poorly lit shop at Draco, staring pointedly at his forehead. With a barely repressed sigh, Draco tilts his head so that Potter's unruly fringe falls to the side, revealing the scar. Moribund's eyes widen and his rosy cheeks go pale and sallow. "Of course. Auror Potter. Anything I can do to help, of course, of course. Come with me, please."</p><p>He walks to the back counter of the store, limping slightly as he goes. Ducking under the low ceiling beams, Weasley follows after.</p><p>Even though Moribund is clearly terrified of Potter, his obsequiousness painful in its intensity, he's surprisingly tight-lipped during their questioning. Though Weasley manages to keep his temper during the twenty minutes they interview Moribund, Draco can see it fraying the longer the questioning goes on.</p><p>"So, you didn't see anything on the day of the break in?" Weasley asks, his Quick Quill scribbling next to his elbow on the counter. "No one hanging around the shop in the days leading up to the robbery, or any particularly persistent customers?"</p><p>Moribund shakes his head, his white hair flying about with the motion. "No, sir, nothing like that."</p><p>"And they only took some papers?" Draco asks. "Nothing from your inventory?"</p><p>"Exactly, Auror Potter. Just papers."</p><p>"And those papers…?"</p><p>Moribund flushes, then turns white. "Nothing important, sir. Nothing important at all."</p><p>Weasley's face is as red as his hair. Draco puts a restraining hand on Weasley's shoulder as he nears the breaking point.</p><p>"Thank you, Mr Moribund," Draco says, holding Ron's shoulder hard enough that Draco's fingers bite into the muscle. "We'll be on our way, but if you think of anything else, please let us know."</p><p>Moribund nods, then bites at his lip, looking first at Draco, then Weasley, then back to Draco. "There is one thing, Mr Potter." Moribund takes a step closer. He leans in close to Draco's ear, whispering. "There's a spell on the store. It's for protection, you see, a way to keep track of the sometimes… <em>unsavoury </em>sorts who frequent these streets. It's nothing dangerous or sinister, sir, nothing like that, but it <em>is </em>indelicate, as it were, keeping a registry of all of my patrons."</p><p>Draco can hear Weasley's teeth cracking, Moribund's attempt at subtlety an evident failure. "And you didn't mention this earlier because…?" he grits out.</p><p>Moribund sniffs and tugs on his robes, settling them about his shoulders though they hadn't been out of place to begin with. "Well, I wouldn't share this information with just <em>anyone</em>, Auror Weasley. But Mr… Sorry, <em>Auror</em> Potter, I owe him a great, great debt. For his service to and sacrifice for the wizarding world. You've heard the stories, of course"</p><p>"Right." Draco desperately tries to keep his expression to one of blank civility. He's absolutely not going to laugh in Weasley's face as this sphere of a man diminishes Weasley's own participation in Potter's heroics. "Of course. And your spell, it caught whomever entered your store?"</p><p>"Yes and no," Moreibund says, shifting uncomfortably before reaching into his robes. He pulls out a folded piece of parchment and offers it to Draco. When Weasley goes to take it instead, Moribund whips it out of his reach, then offers it to Draco again with a sickly sweet smile. "You'll see, Auror Potter, that there's a discrepancy."</p><p>When Draco opens up the parchment, all he sees is names. But as he skims through them, unsurprised at how many of them are vaguely familiar from the gatherings his father had at the Manor in the years after the war, his eyes stumble across a line.</p><p>"What is…" He looks up at Moribund, then to Weasley. "Look at this."</p><p>Where every other line has a name, first and last, this one is simply a single row of X's. As Draco watches, the letters start shuffling, flipping as if on tiles, and become Y's, then Z's, then back to A's.</p><p>"I'm assuming that's not normal."</p><p>"No, sir. I've never seen anything like it before."</p><p>Weasley points to the parchment, the line shifting through the alphabet as they watch. "You can give us the times that these other patrons arrived? The ones before and after?"</p><p>"The best I can do is an estimate, based off of their sales receipts," Moribund replies.</p><p>Draco takes the parchment and folds it back up. "Please."</p><p>Insect eyes flashing, Moribund nods jerkily, then goes to the back office.</p><p>"That's got to be our guy, hasn't it?" Weasley says quietly, watching the shifting name. "If you're knocking over a shop, you'd want to disguise yourself. What better way than erasing your name?"</p><p>"But what kind of magic would you use to do that?" Draco asks. "And how did he know the door was charmed? I didn't sense anything when we came in. Did you?"</p><p>Weasley shakes his head.</p><p>"So, how did our robber?"</p><p>Before Draco can answer, Moribund comes shuffling out of his office, a crumpled envelope clenched in his hand. This he doesn't hesitate to hand to pass off to Weasley. "Receipts."</p><p>Weasley hefts the weight of the envelope and frowns. "For two purchases?"</p><p>"The whole day, sir," Moribund says. "I would think you would want to be thorough in your investigation."</p><p>"Of course." Weasley looks like he's considering casting <em>Incendio </em>at Moribund and being done with it all. "Have a nice day, sir."</p><p>He spins around on his heel, then walks woodenly to the door, shoving it open before storming into the Alley. Draco tries to follow, but Moribund grabs his wrist, holding Draco in place with surprising strength.</p><p>"Names are rather important," he says, eyes darting to the spines of his books, then back to Draco. "You can tell an awful lot about a person from their name. Their family, their history, their identity. Some people believe you can even tell a person's future from their name, as if it determines the course of their lives just by being placed upon them at birth. You would know something about that, I'm sure. Born into this world with the heavy weight of prophecy laid across your tiny shoulders, a burden placed on you long before you knew how to carry it." Moribund stares at him with a too-knowing gaze. "Names give us purpose, young man. Do try to remember what yours is."</p><p>Draco takes a stumbling step back and knocks into one of the bookshelves. Grabbing at it blindly, Draco hurries from the store, the weight of Moribund's insectile eyes on his back heavier than they'd any right to be.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"So, we've got a name," Harry says, watching as the letters flip their way through the alphabet.</p><p>"Did your aunt and uncle drop you on your head as an infant, Potter?" Malfoy stirs his cauldron, frowning as steam clouds his glasses yet again. "We've nothing like a name."</p><p>"It's not a traditional name, but it's still a name. It's…" Harry waves his hand at the parchment. "Something unique, I guess. There's no one else out there with a name like this. Do you know how many Harrys there are?"</p><p>"Only one that people seem to care two Galleons about anymore."</p><p>"Whatever. The <em>point </em>is that we've got something to work with here." Looking around the backroom, Harry stands up, then opens a drawer to pull out a piece of parchment. "I wonder if I can spell this to the same effect and give it to an owl."</p><p>"You're going to murder the bird if you do that."</p><p>"Doubtful." Harry writes a line of A's, then stares at them as he tries to remember everything McGonagall and Flitwick ever taught him about Transfiguration and Charms. His wand buzzes a little uncomfortably under his hand—he and Malfoy learned early on that their wands still favoured their own minds, even while in the wrong bodies, though it doesn't feel <em>quite</em> right—as he moves it through the air with a careful swish and flick. "No, that's not it," he mutters quietly to himself before changing his grip.</p><p>"Please try your best not to damage anything, Potter. You've already done more than enough harm as it is."</p><p>"Not like you're helping," Harry says as he tries another motion. "At least I'm trying to find out who did this to us."</p><p>"<em>You</em> did this to us," Malfoy says as he wipes his glasses clean again. "And as for helping, I've nearly distilled this mess into something usable."</p><p>"Yeah?" Harry sets his wand down and walks over to peer into Malfoy's cauldron. Where the potions had been a vaguely dull shade of brown before, they've now separated into different ribbons of colour. Blue and orange, red and green, yellow and purple. Harry leans in closer, and Malfoy coughs quietly.</p><p>"Potter," he says slowly, "unless you're trying to take your body back by climbing into it, might I suggest that you step back?"</p><p>Eyes snapping up from the riotous rainbow of colours swirling in the pewter cauldron to his own face, Harry suddenly realises that he's rather… <em>close</em> to Malfoy. Harry's always known that his own eyes are a mix of various shades—grass and emerald and forest—but there's something different about the colour when Malfoy's looking out from them, a hint of grey peeking through the verdant green. Light glints off of Malfoy's Transfigured glasses, startling Harry with their brilliance, and he takes a hasty step back.</p><p>"Sorry, sorry." Hands held in the air, he goes back to his parchment and ignores the way his fingers tremble when they pick up his wand. "Whatever you've done, it looks like it's working."</p><p>Malfoy stares into the cauldron, glasses fogged with steam again though he does nothing to wipe them clean. Instead, he takes them off and sets them on the counter, then leans into the open mouth of the cauldron, eyes shut as he breathes in deeply. "Yes, it certainly is. A few more hours, I think, and I'll have them fully separated."</p><p>"I don't get it. You already knew what was in the mix. Why break them back out again?"</p><p>"It's not that kind of separation. Rather than trying to bring out the composite potions, I've consolidated and condensed their <em>purposes</em>. We've got healing, strength, empowerment, replenishment—that one wasn't going to be anything but itself, it seems—intelligence and, most interestingly, <em>cohesion</em>."</p><p>"And I thought Snape sounded like a prat when he talked about this stuff."</p><p>"Snape was a genius." The words sting with their ferocity. "He'd have figured this out already if he were… But no matter. Once I've broken this down into its component purposes, it should be easier to reverse them."</p><p>"The antidote's going to undo all of that?"</p><p>"I'm not certain I'd want to remove any more of your intelligence. You already drool enough as it is."</p><p>"Ha ha. Very funny. So droll." Malfoy sneers at that, the expression making Harry look painfully like Dudley. Harry's stomach twists. "After working here for a couple of days, I trust you to figure it out."</p><p>"Really? Are you that easily impressed?"</p><p>The truth is, Harry <em>isn't</em>. It's rather hard to be impressed with much of anything after seeing what Harry is pretty sure was a waystation to the afterlife. It's just that… It's hard to <em>not</em> be impressed with what Malfoy's built here. As far as Harry can tell, Malfoy only ever had things handed to him before he opened the shop. But this? This is something he's created on his own, and it's a bit… well… magnificent. Especially considering how public the whole blow-up with Malfoy's father was.</p><p>Harry didn't pay too much attention to the estrangement that happened between Malfoy and his family when it happened. It was splashed across the gossip columns for a while, before everyone got bored reading about how little Malfoy cared about the backlash from his fiancée leaving him and his father disowning him. Harry noted it because he still struggled to <em>not</em> pay attention to Malfoy, even years later. Something about Harry's single-minded focus on Malfoy during their sixth year had irreparably damaged his brain, so that now, whenever Harry sees <em>Malfoy</em> in print, his eyes are drawn to the name like iron to a lodestone. Old habits and whatnot. It's not an obsession, not really. Just the remnants of one.</p><p>"I can tell you've put effort into it, is all," Harry finally says, flushing when he realises he's been silent for too long. "It's… Y'know, it's <em>nice</em> is all."</p><p>"Well. I'm sure if I'd seen your paperwork or whatever it is that Aurors do when they're not skulking about, I'd have something equally pleasant to say about your own work." Malfoy steps back from the cauldron and dries his hands on a towel. "I'll get these moved into their own cauldrons before we turn in. In the meantime, why don't you show me what you're attempting with this blasted parchment? It may not be as ridiculous an idea as I first thought."</p><p>By the time they turn in for the night, Harry and Malfoy have managed to get the line of A's scrawled in Harry's messy script to twist and malform themselves into B's. They don't flip like Moribund's parchment, but it's something.</p><p>"I think we can get the C's figured out in the morning," Malfoy says with a yawn as he goes up the stairs before Harry. He unlocks the flat above the store, then pushes the door open. "I'll see you then, Potter. Do try to be out of the shower before I wake up."</p>
<hr/><p>Harry's woken by the sound of Malfoy's triumphant cry as he finds the bathroom unoccupied. The slamming door knocks the rest of sleep from Harry's mind, and, with a groan, he rolls onto his front and buries his face in the Transfigured couch's mattress. He dozes like that, arms laid out by his sides, sunlight blessedly blocked from his vision by the plush mattress pressing against his closed eyes.</p><p>He hasn't slept well since he and Malfoy traded places. That initial discomfort has faded, almost imperceptible now, but the <em>mental</em> exhaustion is dragging. Harry doesn't want to be comfortable in Malfoy's skin, but he <em>is</em>, and it's honestly freaking him out.</p><p>The air on his back goes from cool to hot and humid, and when Harry turns his head to the side, he catches Malfoy ducking into his bedroom, towel wrapped around his waist.</p><p><em>Harry's</em> waist. Damn it, this is still bloody <em>weird.</em></p>
<hr/><p>His sense of discomfort doesn't fade as the day drags on. Ron finally decided that he and Malfoy needed to see Robards, and the pair Disapparated away to their fate earlier. Astoria, freakishly competent as always, is milling about the store, moving bottles from one shelf to another with seemingly little sense of organisation. Harry's certain Malfoy will have something to say about it when he gets back—assuming that Robards hasn't murdered him and Ron for the <em>Prophet</em> article from the day before. It seems like Malfoy always has something to say about Astoria's presence in the store, even though most of the time it's in some kind of half-speech that only the two of them seem to understand. Overall, though, he's had very little to say about Harry's work. It's a bit surprising that Malfoy hasn't taken the opportunity to rub Harry's ignorance in his face, though he'd certainly have grounds to do so. Sure, Malfoy's been a little shirty, but they've bloody swapped <em>bodies</em>. It's not like Harry can hold it against him.</p><p>The bell above the door chimes and drags Harry's attention to the man storming towards him, a bottle clenched in his white-knuckled grip.</p><p>"You!" he screeches, sounding like an owl caught in a windstorm. "You sold me a defective product!"</p><p>"I'm sorry, sir. If you'd give me just a moment—"</p><p>"No!" He slams the bottle on the counter, causing Harry to jump. "I want my money back. Immediately!"</p><p>"Do you have a receipt?" Harry asks, his annoyance starting to grow. "I'll need to see proof of purchase."</p><p>"The bottle's got your logo on it, idiot. Where else would I have bought it?"</p><p>Harry snatches the bottle from the man's hand, then stares at the label. There are, indeed, three M's spread across the packaging, but the rest of the lettering is upside-down. Harry flips the bottle, then sighs.</p><p>"Sir, this is a Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes product, not ours."</p><p>"The logo is the same!"</p><p>"The label is upside down." Harry holds it out to the man. "You can see the rest of the letters—"</p><p>"I want my money back! I know who you are, and I'll not have a Death Eater scam me out of my hard earned Galleons!"</p><p>"Now, listen here—"</p><p>"Absolutely not!" The man snatches the bottle back and shakes it in Harry's face. "You made promises, young man, and this"—the bottle is brandished like a weapon—"did not live up to its advertisement! That's fraud, and don't think for a moment that I won't drag law enforcement into this to get my money back!"</p><p>Harry snaps. "You listen here, you overinflated nutter. That's a Wheezes product. If you'd look at the damned label, you'd see that with your own two eyes. I'm not giving you a rusted Knut for that thing. Go take it up with George, since it's <em>his</em> and not <em>ours</em>. Now, get out of my shop or I'll be forced to eject you."</p><p>The man's mouth flaps open and closed like a fish trying to find breath.</p><p>"Sir!" Astoria's voice is piercingly bright. "Of course, of course! I remember you from earlier this week, just a moment."</p><p>She pushes past Harry, then snaps the till open. A moment later, she presses three Galleons into the man's hand. "I do apologise for my colleague, his memory isn't what it should be." She smiles softly, perfectly projecting sad dignity. "He had dragon pox as a young man, and his ability to recall things isn't as strong as it should be. This must be one of his bad days."</p><p>"I'm not—" Harry gasps in a breath as Astoria's elbow hits him in the diaphragm. When he exhales, it squeaks.</p><p>The man glares at Harry, then juggles the gold coins in his hand before closing his fingers around them. "Of course. I should've known he was touched."</p><p>"Have a good day, sir!" she says brightly, her wide smile in place until the man steps from the store onto the street. The chimes haven't finished echoing through the store before Astoria's rounded on Harry, brown eyes filled with fire.</p><p>"You <em>idiot</em>," she hisses, her gloved finger pressed into Harry's sternum. "What the hell do you think you were doing?"</p><p>"He didn't buy that here," Harry says as he backs up. The display counter behind him digs into his lower back, the potions bottles there rattling ominously. "It wasn't one of Malfoy's—"</p><p>"It doesn't bloody matter if it was Draco's or not. He cannot afford to have people—<em>customers</em>—storming out of here, screaming to high heaven that the <em>proprietor</em> threatened them over a <em>defective product</em>."</p><p>"But that's not true!"</p><p>"It doesn't matter if it's true or not!" Astoria throws her hands up in the air. "Bloody Gryffindors. If that man believes that he bought a product from this store, then we treat him as if he did. Because if we <em>don't</em>, he <em>never will</em>, and Draco cannot afford to lose potential customers because of something as unimportant and inconvenient as the <em>truth</em>."</p><p>"I don't… I didn't…"</p><p>"No," she says, still angry but her vitriol dying down. "No, you didn't. There's inventory in the back that needs organising. Just… Go do that for a while. I'm going to have to think of how to warn Draco about this, should it have any lasting consequences."</p><p>Chastised as thoroughly as he'd ever been when he was a child, Harry slinks into the back and then the storeroom, feeling sick embarrassment and shame at his behaviour. It's just… He hadn't considered what it might mean for Malfoy if Harry acted anything but the perfect shop worker. With how well put-together the shop is, and the seeming way it runs without any struggle, Harry hadn't considered that it wasn't exactly what it looked on the surface. But if Astoria is ready to tear Harry a new one after one bad interaction with a customer—and not even that, just a misinformed and obnoxious excuse for a man—then the shop must be more of a tightrope act than Harry thought. Now, he wonders how much of the shine and gilt is just for show, hiding the crumbling foundation beneath.</p><p>There is very little in the storeroom that needs tidying, but Harry does his best to keep his hands busy. He moves trays of bottles around, straightens bins of ingredients that don't need straightening, and moves a shelf of goods from one side of the room to the other, then back again. But as he shifts things around, reliving his interaction with the customer and Astoria's anger, he starts to notice where there are bare shelves and a thin layer of dust. Another sign that Malfoy's business is, perhaps, not as stable as Harry's convinced himself it is.</p><p>Harry should've known better. He's seen signs that things aren't as rosy as Malfoy makes them out to be. There's been a steady stream of customers, for sure, but no heavy torrent like Harry's used to seeing at George's shop when Ron drags him in. And though the till is full of coins, Astoria doesn't take much out at night when getting ready for her run to Gringotts. He's a professionally trained investigator, and missing something this obvious is humiliating.</p><p>"Harry."</p><p>He jumps a little, the shelf of bottles his hand is resting on shaking as he turns to the open door. Astoria is silhouetted in the doorway, leaning against the frame.</p><p>"I'm sorry," he says before she can.</p><p>She sighs. "I know. I shouldn't have raised my voice so much."</p><p>"No, no. You were right. <em>Are</em> right. I didn't think… It looks like he's doing well."</p><p>"He is."</p><p>"And the store is doing well."</p><p>"It is."</p><p>"And I guess I'm not used to people being arseholes?"</p><p>"Apparently."</p><p>He frowns. "I'm trying to apologise here, and I'm not sure I'm doing that."</p><p>"Apologies aren't going to matter if you fuck it up again," she says seriously. "Actions speak louder than words."</p><p>"Words matter."</p><p>"They do, but only if they effect change."</p><p>He frowns, but nods. "Okay."</p><p>"Good. Now, if you can stop sulking back here, there's work to be done."</p><p>And as Harry trails after her to the showroom, he can't help but agree.</p>
<hr/><p>Astoria must be making up for lost time, because she works Harry like a Crup. He's loading shelves, reorganising displays, and cleaning every flat surface in-between. Unlike the other day, he avoids using the glass cleaner near the loose ingredients, and she smiles proudly when he brings out a specialised cleaner that she'd pointed out the day before. By the end of the day, he's mussed and sweat-tainted and desperate for a shower and sleep.</p><p>Malfoy doesn't look much better, honestly. When he stumbles into the flat, his robes are misbuttoned and his—<em>Harry's</em>—hair looks like it's been styled by a whirlwind with a vendetta.</p><p>"Robards?" Harry asks with a wince.</p><p>"I'd rather not talk about it, Potter." Malfoy runs his fingers through his hair, then curses quietly when they get stuck. "Just… Thank god I don't actually work for your boss."</p><p>Malfoy flops down into an armchair, the first ungraceful motion he's made the entire time Harry's been stuck with him. He takes his glasses off and sets them on the small table next to the chair before rubbing at his eyes. For a long time, he leaves his hand there, breathing quietly into the space. Harry's convinced Malfoy's fallen asleep, but then he lets out a low groan and his hand falls, his green eyes staring at Harry with exhaustion heavy in their shaded colour.</p><p>"So, what's for dinner, then?"</p><p>Thankfully, they're both in the mood for Indian, and Malfoy knows a place nearby that delivers. He orders the lamb biryani for himself and the chicken ruby for Harry, and an order of garlic naan to split. Though there's about a thirty minute wait for the food, neither of them move from their respective places. The silence is surprisingly comfortable, something Harry attributes to their shared exhaustion from the day and Harry's new understanding of Malfoy and his precarious-but-maybe-not position in life. He wants to ask, that persistent desire to know <em>more</em> about Malfoy pricking against the back of Harry's mind, but he refrains, letting himself watch Malfoy through the vague barrier of his eyelashes.</p><p>Malfoy has changed out of Auror red and into joggers and a t-shirt—an outfit Harry didn't expect the man to own, until he recognised them as some of his own clothes that Ron brought over—and is still relaxing in the armchair. There's a thick book in his hands with a title Harry can't quite make out, and though he's still wearing Harry's glasses, he's looking over the top of them to read. The silver frames have slid down to the end of his nose, and Harry's charmed by the casual, easy picture Malfoy makes, though it's still ridiculously disturbing that Harry keeps finding himself fit. It sounds self-absorbed, but he knows he's attractive. It's just never been something he's responded to before.</p><p>It's probably Malfoy's fault.</p><p>Dinner arrives, and they both dig into their takeaway with gusto. The explosion of spices on Harry's tongue makes him close his eyes and moan, and he's startled by the rush of heat he feels. It's got nothing to do with the seasoning and everything to do with the timbre of Malfoy's voice tilted towards pleasure.</p><p>The rest of dinner passes without any further inappropriate sounds or reactions, and as Harry sets his empty container down, he lays back on the transfigured sofa and groans happily.</p><p>"I don't think I'm ever going to need to eat again," he says, eyes shut and hands resting on his abdomen. "That was amazing."</p><p>"Never say I've never done anything nice for you, Potter," Malfoy says from next to the sofa. When Harry opens his eyes, he's startled to find Malfoy bending down to pick up the empty container, his face rather close to Harry's. Their eyes lock, and that heat races through Harry again. Swallowing, he turns his head away and shuts his eyes. It does nothing to stop the flush from rising to his cheeks, and he despairs that he can't trust his own darker complexion to hide his embarrassment like he normally does. With Malfoy's fair skin, Harry's certain he's turned as red as his Auror robes.</p><p>"I'm going to turn in for the night," Malfoy says a moment later, his voice echoing from the other side of the room. "Goodnight, Potter."</p><p>"Night, Malfoy."</p>
<hr/><p>After the day he's had, Harry shouldn't be having this much trouble falling asleep. He blames it on Malfoy, again, because it's easier than considering the real reason that Harry can't get comfortable, even though the mattress is soft and the blankets not too heavy or too warm. Kicking them away, he lays with his arms and legs spread, staring dully at the darkened ceiling.</p><p>It's stupid to be this keyed up. But the morning's confrontation with Astoria is still begging him to relive it, to consider the greater implications of his actions and their repercussions on Malfoy's life, and Harry sighs into the quiet dark of the flat before giving into the impulse.</p><p>At its core, his issue is that he doesn't really <em>know </em>who Malfoy is anymore. Stupidly, Harry has cemented his image of Malfoy as a sneering adolescent, his hair dishevelled from battle, face streaked with soot and ash. It's been more than a decade since the Battle of Hogwarts, but Malfoy has become a monolith in Harry's mind, unchanging and still as nasty as ever.</p><p>But the reality of Malfoy is so far from that. He's still sharp and pointed, the blade of him not dulled in the least in the last decade, no matter how hard life has tried to take the edge from him. There's still that sting of sarcasm, the rapier wit. But he's softer somehow, easier to be around. Maybe it's Malfoy, or maybe it's Harry, or maybe it's the both of them, but Harry doesn't feel the need to punch the man in the face anymore.</p><p>No, he's feeling something else entirely now.</p><p>Though, if he were in the mood to be honest with himself—and he really isn't—he'd admit it's not a feeling that's unfamiliar. The electric feel of his hair standing on end, the prickle of heat in his veins, the way his palms start to sweat and ache. He knows what it means and recognises the flood of desire when it comes, though he's never felt more like he's drowning in his life. It's an entirely ill-considered response to Malfoy, especially when Harry's temporarily absconded with his body, but even as he tries to resist it, Harry finds himself giving in.</p><p>It starts as a simple accounting of the form that Harry's living in for the foreseeable future. Nothing more than a way to familiarise himself with the skin he's in. His fingers coast over his hands and the tendons at his wrist, trailing up the sensitive inner skin of his forearm. They stutter, then still, over the faded stain of the skull and snake, positioned perfectly between his pulse point and the inner curve of his elbow. When he brushes his fingers along the Mark's edges, there's an echo of power in it, a remnant that feels like his mind being invaded, like compulsion and hatred and the petty desire for authority. It makes him shiver, and he draws away from it, unwilling to press any harder against Malfoy's past.</p><p>His bicep is firm. Harry flexes, surprised at the lithe strength trapped there. It's pleasant, that solidity of muscle and skin, and he presses his whole palm against it, fingers wrapping around the bulge of muscle. Another flex, the shift of skin and flesh, and he lets go, his touch already searching for another place to stop and settle.</p><p>The ridge of his clavicle is smooth and even, though it feels bird-light and fragile beneath Harry's slightly-too-hard exploration of skin and bone. But the regular line of that ridge is interrupted by a slash of scar tissue, raised and rough beneath his fingers, and Harry stills.</p><p><em>Sectumsempra</em> drags through his mind, the syllables of the spell splashed with blood. And like that red, vibrant liquid swirling down a drain, diluted by cold water, Harry's hand sinks lower. He traces the marks he's left on Malfoy's body as if in a daze, gasping as he brushes across Malfoy's nipple, the sensation singing through him with tentative fire. It doesn't stop his exploration of Malfoy's chest. Even though it's scarred and bisected by white, ropy lines of raised flesh, the muscles are solid and firm beneath Harry's questing touch. His back arches into the hard press of his fingers against Malfoy's body. Though he knows he shouldn't, he sucks in a harsh breath as his fingers slip into the divot of Malfoy's hip, the muscle and bone meeting in a valley that begs his hand to trail lower, to discover.</p><p>He's wearing pants, and they're tented now. Even though the flat is dark, the only light a subtle hint from outside peeking in through the two windows behind Harry's bed, he can make out the shape of Malfoy's cock. It gives a jump as Harry thinks of it, and he watches, transfixed and horrified as the fabric of his pants darkens, right at the tip where precome leaks out.</p><p>God, he wants to know what Malfoy's prick looks like. Wants to stare at it in clear, bright light, to take in the shape of it, see if it curves away or towards Malfoy's body, the look of the vein along its underside, the heavy weight of it in Harry's hand or—he has to swallow a moan at the thought—his mouth. He's always wanted this, to know what it feels like to touch Malfoy like it's Harry's right, like he deserves to feel this flesh beneath his palms, beneath the weight of his own muscled form. It's a truth he can't deny now, not in the confessional of night, with no one to hear his sins except himself and the darkness blanketing him. So even though he has no right, even though consent is such a tricky thing to figure out when the want is his, but the body isn't, Harry lets first one fingertip, then another, dip beneath the hem of his pants and reach lower.</p><p>Malfoy's carefully trimmed pubic hair parts easily for him. The skin around the base of Malfoy's dick is taut, and when Harry presses against it Malfoy's cock bobs within the confines of his pants, shifting up before gravity pulls its heavy weight back down. Hands shaking, Harry pulls the fabric down around Malfoy's balls, freeing Malfoy's prick to the cooler air of the flat. He hisses as it settles against his stomach, the tip drooling a little as his pulse races through the veins, the engorged flesh beating in time with his heart.</p><p>It's a gorgeous cock. Thick enough that Harry knows it will make for a comfortable handful, but not so big around as to be intimidating. He knows the edges of his mouth would sting, just a bit, if he were to take it to the back of his throat, but the hint of pain would only make him want more. He'd drool around the width of it, feel it pressing against the flat of his tongue as it wrenched his mouth as wide as it could go. His jaw would ache, and he would love every minute of it, doing his absolute best to ruin Malfoy with his lips and tongue and teeth.</p><p>Malfoy's dick aches the longer Harry thinks about it without touching. It's just to relieve the pain of it, just to take the edge off, that he presses the flat of his palm against its rigid length. Hips jerking from the mattress, he grinds against his hand, breath panting from his lungs. It's too much. Too much sensation, too much held-back desire bursting forth. He <em>wants</em> in a way that aches down to his bones, and as his fist closes around Malfoy's cock, his eyes fall shut and he pretends that he's not in Malfoy's body at all.</p><p>Instead, Malfoy is lying against Harry, his back pressed to Harry's chest, and Harry's hand is wrapped around Malfoy's cock. Arm reaching behind him, Malfoy tangles his fingers in Harry's hair. His grey eyes are closed, brow furrowed, thin mouth open and panting as his head rests on Harry's shoulder. Draco groans Harry's name, turns his head so that he exhales against Harry's cheek as Harry wanks him, slow and steady. Harry's hand is a bit dry, but he rubs his thumb over the head of Malfoy's prick, coating it with the wetness gathered there to ease the slide back down. Harry's calluses drag against Malfoy's foreskin, and with a barely whispered word, he casts a wandless lubrication spell, easing the friction to almost nothing. Now it's all heat and pressure, the slow shift of up and down, Malfoy writhing in Harry's lap, thrusting into Harry's fist.</p><p>His prick rides the crack of Malfoy's arse, sliding in the sweat gathered there. The motion is irregular and at times uncomfortable, but Harry presses into it anyway, desperate for the ache of his skin against Malfoy's, the pressure and the friction and the way their flesh drags against flesh. He tightens his hand to make Malfoy writhe, and as Malfoy's back bows with pleasure, Harry chases after him, his hips stuttering up into the suddenly cool, empty air.</p><p>"Potter," Malfoy gasps into Harry's ear, and Harry tightens his grip again. Orgasm builds, hot and fast and unexpected, a coalescence of pleasure that draws everything into one, heated point before fracturing his world into specks of light. He gasps for breath as he comes, hand splashed with Malfoy's semen as his hips rise and fall from the bed.</p><p>Harry lays there, eyes still clenched tight like the fist around his flagging erection. Body singing, lassitude settling over him like an early morning fog over the Thames, Harry forces his eyes to open, casting about the living room for something to clean his hand and stomach with.</p><p>That's when he sees Malfoy. He's hidden in the shadows by the door to his room, his dark skin and hair blending into the midnight gloom. But Harry's spent his life looking into darkness waiting for something to look back at him, and he recognises the flash of wide eyes reflecting moonlight. Come still cooling on his fingers, Harry stares at Malfoy until he steps back into his room, eyes locked with Harry's until the door closes between them.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Draco has never slept well. It might've been something about the way the Manor always creaked late at night, as if it were calling out for its inhabitants, wondering where all of the footsteps had disappeared to. It might've been a symptom of his sixth year and the way that terror had dogged his every step, a sickness he still can't shake. Or maybe it's just because he's always been a little bit afraid of the dark and the way it hides things in its shadows, turning familiar places and things foreign and unknown.</p><p>Whatever the cause, Draco does not sleep well that night. He stares at his ceiling, eyes dry and aching, until sunlight comes peering through the curtains, hazy and indistinct. Draco feels as blurry as the sun, and he stumbles his way to the bathroom, eyes locked on the floor so he doesn't look towards the bed and the memories still laying there like cobwebs that he can't shake loose.</p><p>Why, he wonders as he closes and locks the bathroom door, couldn't Potter leave well enough alone? Yes, they've been trapped in each other's flesh for days now, and sometimes, there are needs that have to be assuaged, but Draco's abstained from it, even though the temptation has been there every time he's gone to the restroom or changed his clothes or shifted his weight so that he feels his unfamiliar body drag against the inseam of his trousers. As he washes his hair, Draco finds himself trying to figure out what would have brought Potter to a breaking point, what would have pushed him over the edge, what would have made him—a<em>hem</em>—take things into his own hands.</p><p>It shouldn't thrill Draco so much, trying to figure it out. He's always loved a good puzzle, loved the process of deciphering what makes something work and putting it back in order, but this isn't quite the same as repairing magical furniture or mixing new recipes. This is someone else's feelings and wants, the twisted mess of desires hidden from sight, becoming more and more tangled the longer they go unseen. As much as he'd like to put his fingers to the knot and watch it unravel, it's not his place. He hasn't earned the right, not yet.</p><p>It's likely a purely physical thing. It wouldn't be the first time that someone's lusted after Draco's body. He knows he's attractive, knows that even if people might hate him for his past, they still want. There haven't been many that Draco's welcomed into his bed, but it's happened before. He knows that they like his skin, pale and smooth, like the feel of his forearms that have grown strong from stirring cauldrons and cutting ingredients. His hands are deft and delicate, talented at touching, and he's used them to his advantage. That Potter's fallen into that same trap doesn't <em>mean</em> anything, no more than a glance across a bar late at night, a free drink set on the counter before Draco, a thrill of possibility. There's no depth to it, though, and even as Draco wishes he didn't want that, he does, and so, he refrains. He won't fall into the mess of wanting something he can't have, not again, not when he worries that it might be enough to ruin him when nothing else before it has.</p><p>Unlike Potter, Draco has some semblance of self-control, and though his gut is tight with desire and his cock aches, he refrains from seeking relief. The flat's cold water supply is certainly getting a workout this week, and he shivers and curses as he wraps himself in a towel, wishing he'd thought to bring his wand so he can cast drying and warming charms instead of patting himself dry.</p><p>Then, he remembers that he's wearing Potter's body, channelling at least some of Potter's magic, and Draco casts them both wandlessly. Though he's careful to manage the power—he's learning that he has to hold it under control, to keep it on a tight leash or risk opening a floodgate of energy—his skin stings when the spells are done, and he's redder than when he entered the bathroom, even though Potter's skin tone is dark enough to hide the worst of the heat rash.</p><p>It's also dark enough to hide the blush that erupts over Draco's cheeks as soon as he sees Potter. The man is wearing another of Draco's suits, and he's in the process of buttoning up the silver silk waistcoat, the material flattering his thin waist and off-setting the starched white sleeves of his shirt. The floorboards creak as Draco walks fully into the main room, and Potter looks up, blond fringe falling over his eyes, shadowing the grey, and Draco's dragged back to the night before and what he saw then.</p><p>"Good morning, Potter," he says, his voice sounding like a rusted door hinge. "I'll just go get dressed."</p><p>And then he flees, like the spineless coward that he is.</p>
<hr/><p>Barely paying attention to whatever clothes he puts on, Draco hurries out of the flat and past a still silent Potter and into the backroom of the shop. Getting the kettle on keeps Draco's attention focused for all of four minutes, and then he's thrown back to the night before and what it means, and what he's feeling, and it's all awful again.</p><p>Draco has never, in his <em>life</em>, been excited to see Ronald Weasley, but as the ginger-haired git walks into Draco's backroom, his freckled face is like last minute salvation from the braided hangman's noose of Draco's emotional state.</p><p>"Weasley," Draco says as he stands, steaming cup of tea left behind on the table. "What a surprise. Let's get going, shall we?"</p><p>Weasley frowns, immediately distrusting. "Where's Harry?"</p><p>"Upstairs. Now, don't dawdle. We've wrongs to right, evil-doers to bring to justice, all of that rot."</p><p>"Are you okay?"</p><p>"Perfectly fine." Draco holds the door open for Weasley, waiting impatiently to escape. "Let's bloody go already."</p><p>"Morning, Ron," Harry says as he comes down the stairs. He looks just as devastating as before, but there's a hesitancy in his gaze as it skirts over Draco that leaves goose pimples in its wake.</p><p>Draco knows that Potter knows that Draco knows what happened the night before, and if the ground were to open up beneath Draco at this exact moment and swallow him whole, it wouldn't be a fast enough escape from this torture.</p><p>"You've gone awfully pale," Weasley says carefully, glancing back and forth between Potter and Draco. "You're sure—"</p><p>"Right, off we go!"</p><p>Draco nearly Splinches the both of them as he Apparates them away, and even though it's the fastest escape at hand, Draco can still feel Potter's hesitant gaze on him like a confident, firm touch in the middle of the night.</p>
<hr/><p>He and Weasley spend the rest of the day interviewing shopkeepers up and down Horizont. It's a deeply unsettling experience for Draco, who's known all of these men and women for years now. Pretending to be a stranger would be hard enough, but pretending to be Harry Potter only adds to his discomfort.</p><p>The hero worship grates like sandpaper on delicate skin. Draco considers some of these people his friends, though not especially close ones, and he's never seen this side of them. They fawn and fall over themselves as soon as Draco walks into their stores, garbed in red and borrowed grandeur.</p><p>"Mr Potter!" they say with too-bright voices, eyes wide and hands clasped so that they don't grab at him. "Of course, of course, whatever you need."</p><p>And they do give him whatever he asks for, though Draco doesn't ask for much. Weasley takes the lead during the interviews, only looking to Draco for assistance when he needs the Saviour to prod the shopkeep into more detail.</p><p>"And what about last week?"</p><p>and</p><p>"You're sure you don't remember any of your customers that day?"</p><p>and</p><p>"If you have any records we might look at, you would be doing us a great service."</p><p>Over and over again, Draco serves as a prop for Weasley's real work. He's sure that Potter must do more than this to be considered one of the best Aurors at the DMLE, but Draco doesn't know what else to do. He's out of his element here and happy to follow Weasley's lead, though the experience leaves him feeling painfully useless.</p><p>They step out of Cobb and Webbs, and Weasley lets out a heavy sigh. "This is a bloody waste of time, isn't it?"</p><p>"Perhaps." Draco stuffs his hands into his robe pockets, then joins the flow of shoppers on the street. They part around him like a river around a boulder, their eyes wide with surprise and a mix of fear and adoration. Draco does his best to ignore them and not meet their eyes. Weasley bumps his shoulder against Draco's, shooting him a commiserating smile.</p><p>"Is it always like this?" Draco asks quietly, pitching his voice so that it only carries to Weasley's ears.</p><p>"Pretty much, yeah."</p><p>"How does he put up with it?"</p><p>"Practice, I suppose. It's been like this since I first met him, when he was eleven."</p><p>Draco thinks of his first ignominious meeting with Potter, and Draco's complete self-absorption overruling any inkling that he might be talking to the Boy Who Lived. He'd been a right bastard, but he hadn't simpered like these people. He feels a bit of misplaced pride at that thought, that the first time he met Potter, Draco treated him like any other child buying robes for their first year at Hogwarts. Of course, he treated Potter like any other child of Draco's acquaintance, which meant he'd been more ornament than person, like a knick-knack left on a shelf to make the rest of the place look nice rather than an element worth noticing itself. It makes Draco cringe in hindsight.</p><p>"Anyway, he takes it in stride," Weasley continues. "Doesn't really use it the same way you've been doing, but it's close enough."</p><p>Draco glances at him, frowning. "What do you mean?"</p><p>"He never uses it to get what he wants. I mean, he could. You have been. But Ha—our <em>friend</em>, he only uses it to help other people."</p><p>"For reforms."</p><p>"Right. Or to get donations for charities he thinks are worthy. When they were rebuilding Hogwarts after… all of that, he put all of his focus to raising the funds to do it and do it well. Merlin, I don't think I've been to so many fancy dinners in my life." Weasley looks forlorn for a moment, eyes going distant and sad. "You pay so much for a plate, and they hardly give you anything to eat. It's a travesty, it is."</p><p>Draco laughs. "Quite right, though it's been more than a few years since my last banquet dinner."</p><p>"I'd imagine so."</p><p>The pause in conversation should be awkward, but Draco's shocked to find himself comfortable in Weasley's company, now that their antagonism has been dulled by necessity. Talking to him now, he's almost… <em>pleasant</em>.</p><p>"You know," Weasley says, as if reading Draco's mind, "you aren't so bad, now that you've grown out of being a prick."</p><p>"And you're slightly less ginger than I remember. It does make me think of you as more than a talking carrot."</p><p>"I retract my prior statement."</p>
<hr/><p>Draco's laughing as they walk into the Fountain of Fair Fortune, and when Beauregard looks up from wiping down the bartop, Draco nearly forgets that he's not <em>Draco </em>right now. Before he can say hello to a man he considers a friend, though, reality crashes down over him like cold water.</p><p>"Auror Potter." Beauregard stills, his face going perfectly neutral. "And I see you've brought a friend this time. To what do I owe the pleasure?"</p><p>"We wanted to ask you some more questions about your break-in, sir," Weasley says, sounding both agreeable and embarrassed. "If you've just a few minutes."</p><p>"It's like I told Auror Potter last week." Beauregard's voice is stiff and unyielding. "Talk to that Malfoy chap across the way. He's a former Death Eater. It'd be no surprise to me if he was wrapped up in all of this, especially with everyone being so close to his storefront."</p><p>Draco stills, any remaining laughter washed away in a torrent of cold shock.</p><p>"And as I'm sure Auror Potter told you last week, Mr Blathington, Mr Malfoy is not a person of interest in this investigation."</p><p>Beauregard harrumphs. "Should be, though. It's reckless, I tell you, letting someone like that set up shop in a reputable Alley like this. Next thing we know, Knockturn will be spilling over, and then what?"</p><p>"Witches and wizards, shopping. Anarchy. Chaos," Weasley says deadpan. "Sir, we'd like to ask you a few follow-up questions, if you have the time."</p><p>"Of course." He scowls. "But you should go talk to that Malfoy chap."</p><p>"Why does it matter?" Draco's voice startles not only himself, but Weasley and Beauregard both. But as they turn their attention to him, he continues speaking. "If Malfoy was a Death Eater or not. Why does it matter?"</p><p>"Because…" Beauregard splutters, face turning red, "because… you know what they did during the war. You saw it."</p><p>He did and he saw more than he'd ever admit to the people in this room. The screams still wake him in the dead of night, echoing through his empty room until they're dampened by the stain on his arm. There's a lingering numbness in that limb, though it comes and goes. The Healers had called it spell damage, but his father had told Draco the truth. A kickback from the <em>Crucio</em>s his aunt had forced him to cast, that he'd had to make himself mean or risk her erratic, irrational punishments. Unforgivables aren't just unforgivable because they harm their victims.</p><p>They harm the caster, too.</p><p>"The war was over a decade ago," Weasley says, drawing Draco's attention back to the present, "and Malfoy's more than paid back his debts to society."</p><p>"Doesn't mean you should trust him," Beauregard mutters. He wipes down the counter with ferocity, his eyes unable to settle anywhere near Draco. "I saw someone suspicious leaving his shop just the other day. A leopard doesn't change his spots."</p><p>"Wait, what did you see?" Weasley's notepad and Quick Quill come out of his pocket at lightning speed. "You saw someone leaving his shop? What'd he look like?"</p><p>"I didn't get a good look, didn't want to draw any attention to myself."</p><p>"No, of course not." Draco doesn't spit when he speaks, but it's a near thing. "When was this?"</p><p>"Three, maybe four days ago? Like I said, I didn't see much."</p><p>"Is there anything else you remember about this man?"</p><p>"Not really. He stumbled out of the shop, stood in the middle of the street, and then Disapparated. Startled a few people with how loud the crack was, but that's not that odd."</p><p>"Were you able to make out his face?"</p><p>At this, Beauregard frowns. "No, now that you mention it. There was a shadow on it or something. All dark. But it was the middle of the day, and the street was in the full sun…" His eyes go vacant and his expression shifts from puzzled to blank, his voice losing its tinge of annoyance and falling flat. "But that's no matter. Talk to that Malfoy chap across the way. He's a former Death Eater. It'd be no surprise to me if he was wrapped up in all of this, especially with everyone being so close to his storefront."</p><p>"Right." Ron grabs his quill and notepad, then gestures towards the front door. "If you remember anything else, you know how to reach us."</p><p>"Of course, of course," Beauregard says, eyes still distant and his washcloth running over the clean bartop.</p><p>Weasley storms out into the street and straight into Draco's shop across the way, their usual Disillusionment Charm nowhere to be seen and the bell chiming with particular forcefulness. Astoria, standing on a ladder along the ingredients shelf, turns with a bright smile that fades almost immediately.</p><p>"What're you two doing here?"</p><p>"Where's Harry?" Ron asks, ignoring her and heading to the backroom before she can answer.</p><p>"What's his problem?" She makes her careful way down the ladder, then hurries to catch up with Draco's slightly more sedate pace.</p><p>"No idea. Did you know that Beauregard doesn't like me?"</p><p>"He's a prat and doesn't deserve you."</p><p>Sometimes, Draco wishes he could have loved Astoria properly. "Precisely."</p><p>When they walk into the backroom, Weasley is pacing and Potter's got the kettle on, his arms crossed as he leans against the counter.</p><p>"Obliviated, you say?"</p><p>"Textbook case. Set language, blank stare, repetitive motions. Someone wiped his mind almost completely."</p><p>"But not entirely. You think we could get some of the Unspeakables down here, see what they could get back?"</p><p>"No chance, mate, not for a series of low-level robberies."</p><p>Draco coughs quietly, trying to get their attention and failing.</p><p>"I could pull something with Shacklebolt, I'm sure of it," Potter says. "He owes me a favour for that bust in Belgium last year. I've been saving it for a rainy day, but this seems like as good a time as any to cash it in."</p><p>"Gentlemen—"</p><p>"It may not be enough, not even with the Department of Mysteries looking into it. You know Obliviation can be hit or miss, especially on the recovery front."</p><p>"Weasley—"</p><p>"Hermione could do it."</p><p>"She's busy with that new bill about equitable pay for humanoid magical creatures. No way we'll be able to get her to shift from that."</p><p>"<em>Ron</em>. <em>Harry</em>."</p><p>They both freeze, then turn to Draco with wide eyes and open mouths.</p><p>"Did you just…" Weasley swallows. "Did you just call us by our <em>first </em>names?"</p><p>Draco sniffs and ignores him. "Would you mind explaining to the rest of the class what in the everloving fuck is going on right now?"</p><p>The kettle whistles, and Potter twists the hob off. Weasley starts grabbing mugs from the above sink cabinet, clattering them loudly on the counter. "Someone's messed with Blathington's memory."</p><p>"Probably our attacker," Potter adds.</p><p>Draco looks at Weasley, confused. "But Beauregard didn't get a good look at him."</p><p>"Not that he remembers. If he <em>had</em> seen anything, it's been wiped out." Weasley rubs at his eyes. "We're lucky we got as much from him as we did."</p><p>"Can't we retrieve the memories? Do something to bring them back?"</p><p>"Not easily, and not without putting him in Janus Thickey for a month." Weasley sips at his tea and sighs. "And since he was repeating himself, we're probably fucked anyway."</p><p>"Talk to that Malfoy chap," Draco says quietly.</p><p>"That's what he told me last week." Potter passes Draco a cup of tea that's clouded with milk, just as Draco likes it. "I should've pressed the point."</p><p>"Instead, you listened." There's just a hint of sugar in Draco's tea, perfectly sweetened and bitter on his tongue.</p><p>"I came to your shop because you were next on the list, Malfoy, not because of something a bigoted idiot said."</p><p>Astoria places her hand on Draco's shoulder, her touch gentle and grounding. "I never liked the man in the first place. If we're not going to get anything from him, what do we do next?"</p><p>Potter leans against the counter again, his hands busy with his mug. "It means our attacker is still in the area, and he's covering his tracks. It's a good bet he'll come back here to finish the job."</p><p>"Then we'd better get the antidote brewed." Draco pushes his undrunk tea away and stands. "Out of here, all of you. I need to focus."</p><p>"Draco," Astoria says, her hand reaching for his before he takes a step back, avoiding her touch. Her brow furrows, but she doesn't press. "Okay. We'll be out front."</p><p>Weasley sets his mug in the sink. "I guess I'll head into the office, see what I can suss out from our interviews. Don't let it get you down, Malfoy. We'll figure this out."</p><p>"Right. Now, please. Let me get to work."</p><p>Weasley looks like he's considering saying something else supportive, but Draco doesn't give him the opportunity, turning to his work bench and the distilled components of the mixed-up potions. He doesn't do much, just stares at the six vibrantly coloured liquids without really seeing them. There's some quiet shifting behind him, then the familiar swing of the door and blessed silence. Finally alone, he lets his head fall forward, his back and shoulders curved under the weight of the day's work.</p><p>It's bad enough that he's spent hours walking through shop after shop, asking the same series of questions only to receive the same series of answers. Add the fawning and the clear difference between how Draco's neighbours look at him and how they looked at Potter, and it's all left him more tired than he's been since the war ended. It didn't really matter that they looked at him as Potter like he was sent from on high. No one looks at Potter like they look at anyone else. Weasley's poor comparison, but those shopkeepers looked at him with respect and calm, steady gazes even though they didn't know him. They know Draco, and they still look at him with thinly veiled distrust.</p><p>"Malfoy."</p><p>His shoulders stiffen. "Can I help you, Potter?"</p><p>"I don't…" The room falls silent until Potter takes a hesitant step forward, his footfall echoing in the room. "It doesn't make sense to me, the way they act towards you. You've done your penance. It's over."</p><p>"Not everyone thinks their enemies deserve a second chance."</p><p>"You're not my enemy. Not anymore."</p><p>Draco can't help the self-deprecating smile. "Of course not. I haven't seen you since my trial, and somehow that's made you no longer see me as something to fear."</p><p>"Absence makes the heart grow fonder, I guess."</p><p>Draco's overwhelmed with the memory of Potter coming while wearing Draco's skin, the way he'd touched Draco's body with hunger, and even though it's warm in the small room, Draco shivers.</p><p>Potter takes another hesitant step forward. "Whatever it is, I don't hate you."</p><p>"I guess I should be thankful."</p><p>Potter's hand on Draco's shoulder is a shock, but that fades when Potter forces Draco to turn and face him. It's odd seeing such an earnest expression on his own face. Draco's fascinated by it, by the way his brow furrows just so, the downturn at the corners of his mouth, the slight tightening of the skin over his cheeks. His eyes glint like molten silver, the only sign that the mind behind them isn't his own. Draco's always looked like ice, where Potter's all flame.</p><p>"I'm serious," Potter says, his voice shifting into Draco's lower register. It rumbles through the air between them, leaving Draco's heart pounding. "You're not who you were a decade ago. You've changed."</p><p>"I should say the same for you."</p><p>"You should." Potter shifts closer. The fire in his eyes flares. "I'm not who I used to be."</p><p>"Hey, Harry!" Weasley's voice cracks through the room like a Stunner. For a moment, Draco isn't sure that Potter's going to step away. His fingers brush Draco's hand where it hangs limply by his side, but then Harry moves away, leaving only the potential of his touch behind. "You coming, mate? Astoria's trying to get me to stock shelves, and I've got to get back to the Ministry."</p><p>"I'll be right there." Potter gives Draco a long look, then nods. "Malfoy."</p><p>"Potter."</p><p>Draco doesn't move until Potter's through the door to the front room and it's stopped swinging on its hinges. Then, Draco collapses against the workbench, his fingers white-knuckled as they grasp at the edge. Pulse racing, he stares at the floor. It takes him a few minutes to get his heart rate to settle, but he breathes deeply until it starts to resume its normal rhythm. Looking for something else to focus on, he turns back to the potions sitting warm and steady on the counter. They, at least, are a puzzle Draco knows how to solve.</p><p>The potions are arrayed in a rainbow of colour. Red strength, orange cohesion, yellow empowerment, green healing, blue intelligence, and purple replenishment. All of them are stable, though Draco's had to keep the heat up on the strength potion or risk it solidifying into a useless brick. He stares at them purposefully, his mind flipping through the possibilities of how each of these components manifested themselves as him and Potter switching bodies. With his focus turned to something he can resolve, Draco finds the process grants him clarity when everything else in his life feels as lost and indistinct as early morning sunlight.</p><p>The cohesion component is the easiest to understand. Unity and drawing things together certainly falls in line with the idea of them swapping skins. Replenishment is probably what's keeping the switch going, as well as healing to limit the damage that might be caused by them inhabiting each other's bodies. It's the remaining three potions that have him confused.</p><p>Strength and empowerment should be two sides of the same coin, but since they split into their own components when he distilled everything, there's something unique to each brew that makes them distinct enough to be separate. Draco casts a diagnostic charm above each cauldron, then adds a white powder to each. When it hits the surface of the strength potion, it bursts into golden sparks, then disappears. Empowerment isn't quite as volatile. Instead of combusting, the powder takes on the colour of the potion, turning vaguely butter yellow before sinking into it, leaving a thin residue on the surface.</p><p>Frowning, Draco takes another powder, this one blue, from inside of his workbench, and adds it to the yellow potion. It absorbs the colour, turning a vibrant green, then sinks.</p><p>Something clicks in his brain, wheels and cogs twisting just right so that everything falls into place.</p><p>"Of course," he says to himself, mind whirling at a frantic pace, before adding a final red powder. This one finally bursts into bright sparks, and he lets out a quiet shout of excitement. He's got it. It's not about <em>self-</em>empowerment, it's about empowering others. Brilliant.</p><p>Frenetic now, Draco grabs an empty cauldron from under the counter. Copper and slightly dented with age, he places it on a free burner, sets the gas alight, then casts a hurried <em>Aguamenti</em> until the vessel is nearly filled. As the water heats, he hurries to his storeroom and starts pulling down ingredients excitedly. Dragon's blood, knotgrass, and puffer-fish eyes to start, then valerian, shed salamander skin, and asphodel. He lays them all on the counter, then chops the knotgrass with one eye on the surface of the cauldron. As soon as it starts simmering, he throws the fish eyes and valerian into the water, which turns a vibrant red. A moment later it starts to boil, and the water darkens until it's nearly black.</p><p>Just before it turns the colour of charcoal, Draco throws the salamander skin in, and the whole thing warps to a brilliant white. A small puff of smoke rises from the surface, and as the potion continues to boil, Draco adds the dragon's blood, drop by drop, until the white becomes pearlescent. He keeps a close eye on the potion as he crushes the asphodel and cut knotgrass together with a mortar and pestle. When he's got a thick, dingy brown paste, he carefully scrapes it free, then stirs it into the potion.</p><p>Where the paste mixes in, the pearlescent liquid turns iridescent. It's a kaleidoscope of colour, a shining, liquid rainbow that reflects the colours of the six potions arrayed on the countertop. When everything is finally incorporated, Draco turns down the burner and steps back, head ringing.</p><p>He stares at the antidote and wonders how much longer it'll be before Potter is finally out of Draco's life for good.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harry morosely wipes down yet another counter while Astoria hums quietly to herself behind the till. It's been slow all day, and after his confrontation with Malfoy earlier, Harry isn't sure he can handle any more forced idleness. He needs to do <em>something</em>, and endlessly cleaning already pristine surfaces is not his idea of a good time.</p><p>Shifting to the spotless front windows, Harry sprays them with the cleaner, then starts smearing streaks onto the glass. It's petty annoyance that's driving his motions, and, if he's being honest with himself, a bit of lingering shame from the night before. He can't tell if he's ashamed that he was caught or that he'd done it in the first place. If Malfoy hadn't walked into the room, if Harry had never been found out, would his shoulders be so tight or his jaw so clenched now?</p><p>It doesn't help that he lied earlier about why Harry visited Malfoy's shop the day they were attacked.</p><p>Harry stares through the smudges at the Fountain of Fair Fortune across the way and wonders about Blathington's animosity towards Malfoy. Astoria said that most of the neighboring shop owners respect Malfoy, and as far as Harry's been able to tell, there's a grudging regard from his neighbors whenever Harry's left the shop. That doesn't mean they aren't hiding some kind of bitterness towards Malfoy, but Harry hasn't been able to pick up on anything more serious than antipathy. Only Blathington seemed to have a grudge against Draco, and Harry isn't sure anymore if that existed before their attacker got to the man, or if it was worsened by the Obliviation.</p><p>Now that he's spent time with Malfoy, Harry isn't surprised that Malfoy's managed to charm the people around him into cordial acquaintanceship. At school, he always was charming when he wanted to be. It seems like he's honed that skill in the intervening years, though things like that don't translate well through newsprint or surreptitious patrols past storefronts.</p><p>It's not that Harry's kept an eye on Malfoy this whole time. Harry's had plenty of things to keep him busy—the trials, going through Auror training, watching Ron and Hermione get married and start a family, getting Grimmauld Place to look like somewhere a person would want to live rather than a nearly-condemned nightmare. There was the breakup with Ginny, her engagement to Dean, and then the awkward period where they circled each other like opponents instead of old friends. The reconciliation was lovely, and the pair of them settled into the new, more comfortable shape their relationship took.</p><p>But throughout it all, he knew—at least in a vague sense—what Malfoy was up to, where he was, the way his life changed after the war. Harry frequently patrolled Diagon, and he saw Malfoy's storefront more than once, though he never entered it before this week. He just looked at its big windows and its golden triple-M logo across the front door, and wondered what would happen if Harry walked inside and tried to say hello, as if they were strangers rather than old, half-forgotten enemies.</p><p>But even though he should have seen it, Harry missed Blathington's symptoms during his interview. Obliviation is painfully consistent in how it manifests after the fact, and Harry's seen it more than once. Lockhart, Hermione's parents, unfortunate crime victims. This wasn't his first time talking to a witness who was Obliviated, the memories of whatever crime they'd witnessed stolen away like an extra handful of Galleons from the till. But Harry missed it, and part of him thinks it might've been because Blathington's mistrust of Malfoy had been a justification for Harry to finally walk through those doors, an excuse perched on his tongue for when he failed to remember how to say hello.</p><p>It would be easier if he could pretend that he still hated Malfoy, but the heat in his chest when he thinks of the man isn't anything like hatred. The low-key simmer reminds him of staring at a map in the middle of the night, eyes trained on a single dot as it moves back and forth through the hallways of Hogwarts. Obsession shouldn't be comforting. Harry should know better. He <em>does</em> know better. But there's some kind of relief in looking at Malfoy and remembering him as a sneering, foul-tempered child, rather than the surprisingly kind, intelligent, <em>intriguing</em> man that he's become. Malfoy is different now. Older, more mature; his jagged, cut-glass edges worn smooth and opaque by the changing tide and salt water. Harry isn't ready to acknowledge that the lingering ember of his fascination with Malfoy is becoming more of a bonfire, ready to immolate him as soon as he dares to touch.</p><p>But, Harry has to admit, he's always gotten a thrill from danger in his life.</p><p>Wiping the window clear, he stares blankly at the glass, Malfoy's reflection staring back. For a moment, Harry indulges in his urge to look, to take in Malfoy's sharp planes and angles without anyone to judge him for it. The world beyond the shop window looks dappled by sunlight with the shifting tide of people walking up and down the street. Flashes of bright colours and dark robes, all moving with the simple rhythm of life, all of it a backdrop to Malfoy's impassive face in the too-clean glass.</p><p>Harry blinks, about to turn away and get back to keeping his hands and mind busy, when he sees a familiar figure dart past and slide into the narrow alleyway between the Fountain of Fair Fortune and the shop next door. The figure stares from the shadows at Malfoy's shop, at Harry, then takes a step back before disappearing fully.</p><p>Their attacker.</p><p>"Astoria," Harry says, throwing down his rag and running towards the front door before he can think better of it, "I'll be right back. Owl Ron."</p><p>"Wait, where are you—"</p><p>Her question is cut off by the slamming of the door and the crowds outside the shop. Harry pushes his way through, stumbling into the alleyway while witches and wizards shout after him. Ignoring them, he ducks into the darkness. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust from the bright midday light, and he barely catches the telltale sweep of robes hurrying around a corner. There's a quiet voice in the back of Harry's head telling him this is a terrible idea—it sounds an awful lot like Hermione—but it's drowned out by the sound of his running feet on the pavement.</p><p>His boots skid as he comes barrelling out of the alleyway. Glancing around, he catches sight of their attacker hurrying down the street, weaving in and out of bystanders easily. Harry curses quietly to himself, then races after the man. They're in a part of Horizont that Harry hasn't seen before, but he does his best to keep his sense of direction about him. He doesn't have time to cast a Way-Finding Charm. His wand is strapped to his forearm, and it's hard for him to keep his eyes focused on his target while fumbling with the buttons of Malfoy's too-tight cuffs, but he manages to undo one of the mother-of-pearl fastenings without losing sight of the man jogging his way through the crowd. Harry shoves the sleeve back and pulls his wand out, pointing it down the street.</p><p>His Stunner goes racing down the street ahead of him, zipping past the few remaining pedestrians who haven't pressed themselves up against the fronts of shops or disappeared down alleys. The red light is bright in the shadowed alley, but Harry doesn't pay it much mind as it reflects off of windows and startled faces, keeping his focus on his prey. The man looks back at him, eyes wide, and then ducks down another alley. Harry curses, then Apparates as close to the intersection as he can, trying to make up for lost time. The crack is still echoing down the street when he lands, and he hurries around the corner with his head spinning, but his wand still trained on the man's back.</p><p>"Stop!" Harry shouts, surprised at how piercing Malfoy's voice is when raised in breathless anger. "Don't make me hurt you!"</p><p>Laughter rings back to Harry, and his vision goes red at the edges. He's going to catch this arsehole, come hell or highwater. Throwing another Stunner, Harry's grimace is more of a smile when the spell nearly catches the man on the shoulder.</p><p>And then the air is knocked from his lungs, and his side and back are on fire as the cobblestones and gravel of the street cut through his shirt and into his skin. His head hits the ground with a sharp crack, not unlike Apparition, but then everything is bright with stars, even though a distant part of him knows it's the middle of the day. All he can see is light and red, a cloak of it like blood that wants to wrap him up in its sticky embrace. He struggles against it, then gasps as bands of steel tighten around his chest.</p><p>"Stop resisting arrest," a voice Harry vaguely recognises says before a fist comes crashing into his cheekbone. It sends the stars spinning into nebulas, and Harry thinks, with the painful clarity of saliva growing heavy on his tongue and the tang of metal in the back of his throat, that he's going to be sick. "Merlin, Malfoy, I said stop!"</p><p>A moment later, Harry's flipped onto his front, his still-stinging cheek pressed into the ground where gravel digs into the soft flesh, then the bone. Harry wants to say something, but he can't breathe and he can't think, and something about this is very wrong, though he can't put his finger on what exactly that might be.</p><p>Ropes wrap around his wrists and ankles, and as the Auror hauls him to his feet, the stars start dancing again, and for the first time in his life, something Harry has predicted comes true. As the Auror dances away from the bile and half-digested breakfast spattered across the cobblestones, Harry wonders if Trelawney would be proud.</p><p>A moment later, he passes out.</p>
<hr/><p>When he comes to, his mouth is tacky and tastes like he licked the insole of a shoe someone had thrown away after wearing it for a decade. He gropes blindly for his wand so he can cast a cleansing charm, but his wand holster—and the wand it carried—are missing. There's just the now-familiar raised lines of the Dark Mark and Malfoy's pale skin under Harry's wrinkled and stained shirt sleeve. He sits up, groaning, and tries to make sense of where in the hell he's ended up, head pounding.</p><p>He's half-sitting, half-laying on a thin mattress held up by chains and magic. The floor is bare stone, and there's a charmed toilet sitting in the corner. Bars separate Harry from a hallway, and on the other side is a cell not much different than the one he's sitting in now.</p><p>It's with a sickening lurch, not unlike nausea, that he recognises this place. Only thing is, he's used to seeing it from the other side of the bars.</p><p>Groaning, he lays back down on the bed because he doesn't know what else he should do. As he stares at the ceiling and tries to figure out what in the hell happened, he presses his fingers to his head and winces. There's a huge lump above his right temple, and as he carefully probes the tender skin there, he can't help the slow, oozing queasiness that sweeps over him.</p><p><em>Concussion,</em> he thinks muzzily, <em>or at least a decent knock to the head.</em></p><p>Of course, he has no idea how long he's been here or how much longer he's going to be stuck in this godforsaken place. Knowing the Aurors like he does—and oh, does Harry know—he's going to be here until the required nightly meal, which could be sooner or later or already passed. He hates not having his own power at his beck and call, and though he tries to cast a wandless <em>Tempus</em>, all it does is make his head ache more.</p><p>He's starting to doze, the boredom and pain dragging him under even as he fights it, when he hears footsteps hurrying down the stairs he knows are at the end of the hallway but can't see from his cell. There's a familiar voice cutting over the staccato rhythm of steps.</p><p>His own.</p><p>Thank <em>Merlin</em>.</p><p>"Malfoy," Harry's own voice yells down the hallway, "so help me, you'd better be down here, or I'm going to hex you into oblivion once I find you."</p><p>"I'm here," Harry shouts, though it sends pain lancing through his skull. "Keep your voice down, please. I knocked my head when I was arrested."</p><p>"So they've told us." Malfoy stills outside the bars, his arms crossed as he glares at Harry. "I thought you were supposed to keep a low profile."</p><p>Harry staggers to his feet and hurries to the bars, wrapping his fingers around cold steel partially to keep himself standing and partially because he thinks he might try to punch the sarcasm out of Malfoy's mouth if he doesn't. "I saw him, you prat."</p><p>"Who?" A second later, Malfoy's face goes still. "You don't mean…"</p><p>"He was outside of the shop. Looking in the window. I took off after him."</p><p>"And made the front page of the <em>Prophet</em>, mate." Ron's moving at a more sedate pace than Malfoy had been, his hands stuffed in his pockets, mouth quirked in a commiserating smile. "Former Death Eater resists arrest in the middle of a crowded street, kind of hard to stay out of the papers."</p><p>"Shit." Harry glances at Malfoy, who's overly stiff posture and gritted teeth suddenly make a lot more sense. "I'm sorry, Malfoy."</p><p>"I'm sure you are. Has anyone seen to that head wound of yours? You've blood all over the collar of that shirt."</p><p>"I don't think so, no."</p><p>"Good. Stand still so I don't blind you or something."</p><p>Malfoy pulls out his wand and points it at Harry's head. For a second, Harry blanches, waiting for the <em>Avada Kedavra </em>that Malfoy's been waiting years to cast, but then he remembers that this man stepped in front of an unknown curse for him, put his life at risk for Harry, and instead of flinching, Harry stands still and waits.</p><p>The Healing charm makes his eyes water with its strength, but the pain disappears almost as soon as it flares, leaving behind an easy coolness and clarity that Harry hadn't realised was missing.</p><p>"Thanks, Malfoy," he says, feeling at where the lump used to be and finding only smooth, even skin. "I guess I owe you one."</p><p>"You owe me two," he says, pulling a set of keys from his robes and slotting one of them into the cell door. "Weasley and I have gotten you released."</p><p>"What? How'd you manage to do that?" Harry darts a look to Ron, who shrugs.</p><p>"Greenberg owed me a favour and dropped the charges. But, honestly, mate, you've got to stop running down the street, flinging hexes. People are starting to think Malfoy's lost the plot."</p><p>Harry curses to himself, but nods. "Of course. Sorry, Malfoy."</p><p>"Nothing to be done about it now," Malfoy says as he unlocks the door and holds it open. "At least this time you had a good reason for ruining my reputation, what little of it there is left."</p><p>"Right." Harry steps out of the cell and stuffs his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. "Any chance I can get my wand back?"</p><p>"Not until we're out of here, I'm afraid," Ron says. "There're only so many rules people are willing to break for you."</p><p>"That's fine. Let's go."</p><p>Harry leads the way, unwilling to look at Malfoy and see the resigned anger simmering beneath his carefully composed expression. Eyes trained on the floor and mind spinning with thoughts of their attacker's escape and Harry's arrest, he's startled when Ron grabs his shoulder, stopping him.</p><p>"C'mon, mate. It'll be okay."</p><p>Harry shrugs Ron's hand from his shoulder. "Will it? He got away again, and all I did was make a mess of things for Malfoy. He doesn't need this all over the papers, not with the shop struggling and people—"</p><p>"Who said the shop was struggling?" Malfoy's voice is sharp enough to cut. Harry opens his mouth to respond, but Malfoy continues before he can. "Was it Astoria?" He curses, then pushes past Ron and Harry. "I swear, she needs to keep her nose out of my business."</p><p>"She just wants to help you."</p><p>"I don't need her help," Malfoy spits. He doesn't turn back to face them, his shoulders stiff and unyielding. "She's done more than enough for me already. I don't need her pity to go along with the handouts."</p><p>"That's not fair."</p><p>"In case you haven't noticed, Potter, most things aren't fair. I owe her a great deal, but I've made my business a success because I've worked hard for it. One ill-advised romp through Horizont won't destroy that, not if I have anything to say about it. Now, let's go. There's something at the shop you need to see."</p><p>He walks out of the Ministry's jail as if he's done it a thousand times, as if the experience isn't new and terrifying, only a step away from a fate he'd avoided over a decade ago. Something in Harry's chest tightens as he watches Malfoy disappear up the stairs, limned with bright light and his pride like armour around him. Harry can't tell if that warmth is respect or something edging closer to desire.</p>
<hr/><p>Standing in the center of Malfoy's shop, Harry is struck with the recently familiar feeling of not knowing what he's looking at. The bottle in his hands is slightly warm, as if it had been held for too long by someone else and their body heat is lingering in the glass. As he turns it over, the potion inside shifts colours, swirling into a white-tinged rainbow. Malfoy's got a similar bottle sitting next to him on the counter, his hip leaned against it as he looks pointedly at the potion and nowhere near Harry.</p><p>"So, this is it," Harry says, feeling a mix of excitement and, startlingly, regret.</p><p>"Yes, I believe so."</p><p>"But you can't be sure."</p><p>Malfoy sighs. "Magic is never a sure thing, Potter, much less the experimental variety. This brew has properties in direct opposition to the ones that are contributing to our current situation, so it is, as far as I can tell, our best option."</p><p>"And the spell component?"</p><p>Malfoy shrugs. "I don't think we'll need it after all, no more than what magic is necessary to power the potion initially. It should be enough to counteract any lingering curse damage."</p><p>"And what happens if it doesn't work?"</p><p>"Then we will continue to be stuck where we do not belong, and I will go back to making more brews." Malfoy picks up the bottle and swirls it, sending its contents dancing. His brow is slightly furrowed, corners of his mouth hinting at a frown, but there's no hesitancy in his expression. All Harry can read is wary certainty, as if Malfoy already knows how this is going to end, even without the potion passing his lips.</p><p>"Why didn't you drink it before?" Malfoy's as startled by the question as Harry is. He swallows, continues. "Why'd you wait for me?"</p><p>"I think that's fairly obvious, Potter. We could hardly expect our consciousnesses to switch places again if we're not within sight of each other."</p><p>It is obvious, now that he thinks about it. It's pragmatic, sensible. Harry wishes Malfoy's motivation was something different, something less reasonable, so that Harry wouldn't be alone with this twisted mess of emotion that's nestled itself in his stomach and taken root over the course of this week. The wizened remains of something he'd long thought dead, springing back into breathtaking life. He's choking with it now, throat tight and heart sore.</p><p>"So," he says, forcing the words out, "how's it work?</p><p>"We drink the potion at the same time, and then there's the small spell I mentioned. Nothing fancy, you should be fine if you follow my motions. That will activate the potion, and then we'll need to touch hands to trigger it. My best guess is that you tackling me is what set off the switch in the first place, so a physical aspect will be required to undo it."</p><p>"Right." Harry reaches for the stopper, then stills. "You want to do this now?"</p><p>It strikes Harry that he's suddenly unwilling to give Malfoy's body back. That first discomfort he'd struggled with has disappeared, and now he feels as if he's at home in these bones, as if the flesh laid across them is <em>his</em>, as if he belongs here where he's never belonged before. He doesn't want to give up his connection to Malfoy, this final forced moment that's dragged them together over the last few days after being so far apart for years. It wrenches something in his chest, drags it from center to off, leaves him aching and angry.</p><p>"I don't see any point in dragging it out." Malfoy unstoppers his bottle, then lifts it in a mocking salute. "To mistakes and missteps."</p><p>The words sting. "What's that supposed to mean?"</p><p>Malfoy laughs. "We're only here because I moved left instead of right, Potter. This is all a mistake."</p><p>"You…" Harry swallows, throat suddenly scratchy. "You didn't do it on purpose."</p><p>"Get our minds and bodies switched? Of course not."</p><p>"No. The curse. You didn't step in front of me on purpose."</p><p>Malfoy frowns. "You don't have to sound so serious about it, Potter. I was trying to get a better look at the man, and I moved. He hadn't even cast the thing yet."</p><p>"Of course." God, Harry feels like a bloody idiot. "Of course you didn't. Merlin." He sets his still stoppered potion on the counter, then starts walking towards the stairs to the flat.</p><p>"Potter!" Malfoy's voice—<em>Harry's</em> voice, damn it—rings out across the backroom. "What in the hell is going on?"</p><p>"I thought…" He can't turn around, can't move. His fingers bite into his palms, and he can't tell if he's more angry with Malfoy or with himself. "I thought you'd meant it. That it… That <em>I…</em> It doesn't matter. I'm going out."</p><p>"We've got to take the potion."</p><p>"Fuck the potion. It can wait."</p><p>"Potter, what are you talking about? Hey, come back here, you pillock. Don't you dare go up those steps!"</p><p>So Harry Apparates away instead, the crack loud enough to hide the sound of something in his chest breaking.</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Draco isn't entirely sure what's happened. He puts the stopper back into his potion, sets it on the counter next to where Potter left his, and then stares blankly at the pair of them, wondering what in the hell he's supposed to do now that Potter's scarpered off for apparently no reason.</p><p>Well, not precisely for no reason. Just for a reason that Draco doesn't understand. So Draco didn't purposefully put himself in the way of the spell. He still ended up there, saving Potter from whatever curse was directed his way. That Draco's intention wasn't necessarily the fairy tale thing Potter might want it to be wasn't on Draco.</p><p>After all, Potter's response makes no sense. Draco had thought he would be happy to hear that there was a possible solution to this mess, that he would finally be rid of Draco. That's what he's wanted this whole time, isn't it? To be free and clear of this debacle, to go back to his life as star Auror, the wizarding world's golden boy, to his power and his friends and his own body. Being stuck in Horizont with nowhere to go and no one to talk to couldn't have been Potter's idea of an entertaining romp. He certainly had better things to do than spend time here.</p><p>It couldn't be that Potter might want something <em>else</em>. Draco can't… It doesn't…</p><p>He's reminded of his own body, sketched in moonlit strokes of white and bowed with pleasure. The way that his muscles had tensed and shivered at the sound of Potter's name whispered across the yawning expanse of Draco's front room. How Potter had trained his grey eyes on Draco and refused to look away.</p><p>Draco's stomach clenches, then his hands, as he fights against the sudden rush of what feels like hope but tastes like a mistake. If Potter <em>wanted</em>… But it doesn't matter anymore because Draco's ruined it before he even knew it was there, yet another thing bespoiled by his touch. Cursing, Draco wishes he knew how to locate Potter, how to find him adrift in the greater world and draw him back here, back to Draco, back to make Potter listen to the answer to an unasked question, one that Draco isn't entirely sure he knows how to answer.</p><p>Instead, Draco is alone in the backroom of his shop. Like always. He curses quietly before starting to clean up further. The large cauldron with the majority of the antidote gets covered with a stasis charm and tucked into his refrigerated storage cupboard. He wipes the counters down with a chemically neutral cleaner, and after twenty minutes, everything is neat and back in order. Everything, that is, except his mind.</p><p>He makes a cup of tea and sits at his small table. The quiet is interspersed by careful sips of scalding liquid, the delicate flavour of Ceylon and Assam, the simple routine of bringing the cup to his lips and setting it on the table, the heat of it seeping through porcelain to warm his icy hands. Minutes tick by, and Draco waits for Potter to come back, though Draco has no idea when, or if, he will.</p><p>It's been a long time since he's made a mistake that he hasn't felt he could recover from. Draco is resilient, adaptable. He's learned how to roll with the punches and avoid them entirely when possible. But the anger on Potter's face, the unexpected current of hurt hidden in his tone…</p><p>Draco puts his head in his hands and groans.</p><p>"Bad night, huh?"</p><p>Spinning around at the voice, Draco's eyes widen. "What're you doing here?"</p><p>Their attacker, his face still shrouded by that strange cowl, laughs. "I thought that would be obvious by now."</p><p>"Well, it's bloody not." Draco shifts, feeling his wand against his inner arm. "What have I ever done to you?"</p><p>"What have you ever done?" The man laughs, the sound too-high and twisted. "You destroyed <em>everything</em>. Decades of work, gone in an instance, and all without any repercussions."</p><p>"I don't know what you're talking about."</p><p>Even with his face covered, the snarl is clear. "The prophecies, Mr Potter!"</p><p>Draco keeps the surprise from his face, but only just. Somehow, he'd forgotten that he isn't himself, that as far as this unnamed man is concerned, Draco is <em>Potter</em>, and the anger this person feels, the vendetta, isn't against Draco at all. He nearly laughs at the realisation. Some of his humor must slip through, because the man rushes forward, his hand scrabbling at his mask.</p><p>"You laugh?" he screams. "You think this is funny?"</p><p>Draco can't stop the gasp when the man finally pulls the fabric down. The lower half of the man's face is covered in jagged, awful scars. They range from tiny, almost imperceptible lines to jagged, thick marks that twist the skin and the muscle beneath. The worst scar starts at the corner of his right eye and trails across the plane of his cheek to slash across his mouth. The skin there is puckered and red, and as he stalks closer to Draco, the ragged line turns white as he sneers.</p><p>"You did this to me, <em>Harry Potter</em>. You and your selfish, idiotic friends, careening through places you shouldn't have been, destroying things that will never be recovered. There were people in those shelves, young man. People who were unable to move away, caught in a shower of glass and portent, and left to bleed in their remains."</p><p>Draco has no idea what this man is talking about, but whatever blame he's laid at Potter's feet, it's enough to put Draco into harm's way now. But before he can do anything, the man's fist is twisted in Draco's collar, and he's pulled Draco out of his chair. Hands scrabbling at the too-tight grip at his throat, Draco's vision starts to go grey.</p><p>"If it's me you want, then why target Malfoy?" His short nails desperately try to find purchase on the man's grip. Though his fingers are scratched and bloodied from Draco's attempts, the man doesn't seem to notice.</p><p>"Because you've always been obsessed with that boy." He's so close when he says it that Draco can feel spittle on his face. "Because I've followed you for <em>years</em>, waiting for my opportunity, and I've always found you here, <em>pining</em>. It's pathetic, how easy it was to draw you here."</p><p>"The other stores"—Draco fights for another harsh, gasping breath—"why them?"</p><p>"I needed to keep you interested. If I'd only gone after Malfoy, you would have been done too quickly, and I wouldn't have had a chance to get you alone, vulnerable. Anyway, none of that matters now. I've waited for years for this." He runs his finger over Draco's forehead, tracing Potter's scar. "You'll have more of these when I'm done, ones to match."</p><p>"No, he won't."</p><p>Draco's never been so happy to hear his own voice, though the man laughs.</p><p>"What do you think you're going to do, boy? You think you're going to save him?"</p><p>"I think you're going to let him go, and then I think you're going to go to prison for a very long time."</p><p>"You've certainly got a high regard for yourself."</p><p>Potter glances at Draco, his pale cheeks flushed. "I do."</p><p>"It doesn't matter." The man pulls his wand so fast, Draco can barely see the motion. The Body-Bind Curse is flying across the room just as quick, and Draco, already starved for oxygen, feels his lungs clench.</p><p>But Potter's one of the best Aurors the DMLE has ever seen, and he proves that now, rolling into a dodge that looks as natural as breathing. With a curse, the man throws Draco away, casting an <em>Incarcerous</em> while Draco's vision swirls with stars. The ropes are around his wrists before he can roll out of the way. Struggling to roll onto his side, Draco watches as the man stalks Potter around the room.</p><p>Meanwhile, Potter's got his wand drawn, and he's circling the edges of the room, keeping his back to the wall while not letting his gaze drift from the man.</p><p>"I've seen you before," Potter says, keeping the man's attention on him. "Why do I know you?"</p><p>"I've no idea." The man throws another curse, one that Draco doesn't recognise. It catches Potter's arm, and blood blooms red and wet beneath the cloth of his sleeve.</p><p>"William," Potter says suddenly. "Christ, you're from Mysteries."</p><p>Their attacker—William, apparently—doesn't say anything, just throws another curse at Potter. As Potter dodges it, the counter behind him explodes. There's a smoking hole left behind, too close to the still-brewing Dreamless Sleep for Draco's comfort.</p><p>"You've got to get him out of here," he yells as he struggles vainly against the ropes. "He's going to blow the damned place up."</p><p>"I got that," Harry says, dodging another spell before casting one of his own. "But he's not after me. He's after <em>you</em>."</p><p>"Will you stop talking?" William casts <em>Stupefy</em> and it hits Harry in his injured arm. The limb falls limp and useless at his side. "Now, Mr Malfoy, do me a favour and stay out of my way."</p><p>Draco feels his ropes slip, just a little, and he keeps working furiously at the bindings. Harry casts a Jelly-Legs Jinx, but misses. The misaimed spell hits the cupboards of the kitchenette, and Draco hears ceramic shatter.</p><p>Cursing quietly, he wishes he had his wand, that he could do <em>something</em> to get out of these damned ropes. But his wand is held tight against his arm by the ropes, and though he's making progress, it's not going to be fast enough to stop Harry and William from destroying Draco's shop in their desire to destroy each other. And if there's anything Draco can't let happen, it's watching all of his hard-won joy burn to the ground.</p><p>Sudden untamed magic roils within him. Brought forth by his anger and fear, it spills over until Draco's choking on it. The ropes erupt into flames, then disappear in ash, and Draco staggers to his feet as William turns to face him, eyes wide and back to Harry.</p><p>"What?" The man's startled gaze falls to the black soot on the floor, then back to Draco. He's about to speak, but Harry's Stunner hits him across his shoulders, and his eyes roll back in his head before he slumps to the ground, his face slamming into the floor with a sickening crack. As Draco watches, blood slowly oozes from the man's face, his nose likely broken.</p><p>"Nice distraction," Harry says before slumping against the counter, arm limp and bleeding by his side. "We need to call Ron and get this guy taken to headquarters. He's an Unspeakable. They've got special protocols for holding them."</p><p>Draco staggers towards Harry, his fingers still numb from the bindings. "We need to get you sitting down and healed, Potter. Merlin, you're getting blood all over my floor."</p><p>"Your blood, your floor," Harry says with a fuzzy smile. When Draco slips his shoulder under Harry's arm, he collapses against Draco, body slack and unwieldy with it. "I don't feel good."</p><p>"Damn it, Potter." Draco takes an unsteady step, then shifts Harry's weight so it's easier to carry him to an open chair. When he sets Harry in it, though, he continues to slump to the side, his face a pale grey. "What did he hit you with?"</p><p>"Don't know," Harry murmurs, slipping further down as if he's unable to hold himself upright. "Need Hermione."</p><p>"You need a bloody Healer." Draco grabs Harry again, then helps him to the floor before lifting his calves and feet onto the chair. "Keep those up there if you can, Potter. I think you're going into shock."</p><p>"Probably."</p><p>Draco sighs, then hurries into his showroom. It's dark, night having fallen sometime between Draco's fight with Harry, the attack, and now. He casts a wandless <em>Lumos</em>, showering the room in light, and starts grabbing potions from the shelf. Blood-Replenisher, Wiggenweld Potion, Dittany, anything he thinks might be useful to heal whatever is wrong with Harry. At first, Draco can't believe that their attacker is an Unspeakable, but the longer he thinks on it, the more it makes sense. The crimes all had an odd sense of irony to them—a place called Fortune losing its money, a cobweb filled with spiders, locks unlocked—and the way that the man's name had appeared on Moribund's ledger. Of course it would be an Unspeakable committing the crimes. And though Draco hadn't been there when his father and his Death Eater cronies had torn through the Department of Mysteries, he heard the story enough times that he could piece at least some of it together. It seemed that Theo's father wasn't the only person injured that night, just the only one to come out of it somehow intact.</p><p>But that's a different matter for a different time. Harry's going into shock on Draco's brewing room floor, and there's no point in replaying old stories when he should be saving Harry's life. Arms full, Draco clatters through the door into the backroom, then stills.</p><p>Feet still on top of the chair, Harry is unconscious on the floor. William is standing over him, looking at Harry with an odd expression that Draco doesn't like the look of. It reminds him too much of those final days of the war and the way his father's eyes went vague and unsteady whenever Voldemort asked too much of him. It's a dull, distant thing that Draco recognises as the beginning of madness.</p><p>"William," Draco says cautiously, easing his way towards the kitchenette and its countertop, setting his potions down carefully. The man doesn't look up, though, captivated by whatever he sees in Harry's listless form. "Step away from him."</p><p>"He's… <em>you</em>." William looks up, eyes too bright. "And you're him." He laughs, high and tight. "And he's dying. He's going to die. I've done it." He laughs again. "Finally, I've done it."</p><p>The words twist through Draco's gut like a knife. "You're wrong. I'm right here. I'm who you want, not Malfoy."</p><p>William's eyes flash, finally looking away from Harry sprawled across the ground. "You don't think I can tell? Now that I know how to look?" He kicks at Harry's ribs, laughing when they crack against the toe of his boot. "I'm no idiot, Mr <em>Malfoy</em>, though it appears everyone else around you is. No, this may be your body, but I know who's residing there"—his smile is a vicious thing—"and his time is coming to a close."</p><p>Teeth gritted, Draco feels energy racing through him, an unsteady tide of power that can't be stopped. He's never really had a handle on Harry's magic, just barely contained it. Mute with horror, he feels that unruly swell of power in his gut twist and roil, then burst out of him like a torrent. Whether it's Harry's magic or Draco's fear, something has decided to take matters into its own hands. The magic crackles from his fingers to race across the floor towards William, its intent all its own and Draco only able to watch in mute horror. As it draws closer to William, it solidifies, looking less like random sweeps of electricity and more like the lithe body of a wolf. It leaps over Harry, then locks its jaws onto William. It bites its way up his legs, its claws scrabbling at the fabric of his trousers while William screams and tries to beat back the creature. His hands slide through its body like it's made of mist, and then its jaws are wrapped around William's neck, and he's on the floor, writhing and screaming, and Draco has to look away, stunned and sick.</p><p>When everything falls silent except for Draco's panting breath, he turns around. Where William had been is just the tattered remains of a robe, that strangely dark cowl, and claw marks in the tile. There's no time for Draco to process it, though. Harry's lying limp on the floor, his feet still resting on the chair. Draco grabs the potions and falls to the floor next to Harry. He forces Harry's mouth open and pours the Wiggenweld in, not caring about the dosage. Closing Harry's mouth with a gentle touch to his chin, Draco tilts Harry's head back and massages his throat, breathing a sigh of relief when Harry swallows and colour floods his skin again.</p><p>"Come on, Potter." He opens the man's mouth again, pours more potions in. "Wake up, you bloody bastard. I think I've murdered someone, and I have no idea where his corpse went, and right now, I cannot—<em>cannot</em>—deal with cleaning up my <em>own </em>corpse and living out the rest of my days as you."</p><p>Harry coughs, the sound wet and ragged, and then he groans. "Christ, Malfoy, stop shaking me? I'm fine."</p><p>"You are <em>not</em> fine, you incurable arse."</p><p>Harry groans and rolls to his side, his injured arm no longer bleeding and his colour quickly improving. "What the hell happened?"</p><p>"Our guest nearly killed you. I… resolved that."</p><p>"You resolved that."</p><p>"Yes." Draco sniffs, hoping he can hide is rising panic with haughtiness. "I did the same for your injuries."</p><p>Harry coughs again, sounding a bit worse than before. Thrusting the Wiggenweld into Harry's hands, Draco mimes for him to drink.</p><p>"Right. Completely resolved." Harry takes a drink and grimaces at the taste. Draco wonders if there's any Breath Refreshener lying about. "Where's William?"</p><p>"That is a brilliant question."</p><p>"You don't know?"</p><p>"Dead, I expect." There's that panic, creeping through. He'll be lucky to hold it back now.</p><p>"Dead." Harry looks around the room, and his eyes go wide when he takes in the empty robe and the claw marks. "Fuck, Malfoy. What happened?"</p><p>"I've no idea." At Harry's disbelieving look, Draco throws his hands up. "Honestly, I swear. I rather wish I <em>did</em> know what happened. It would certainly make things easier for my barrister."</p><p>"You… Are you sure?"</p><p>Draco gestures to the destroyed clothes. "I certainly didn't help him strip." Nausea overwhelms him. "I'm going to end up in Azkaban for this. The <em>Prophet</em> will be thrilled."</p><p>"No, you won't," Harry says as he finally sits up. "You didn't kill him. I did."</p><p>"No, you don't understand, Potter. The magic, it just… I couldn't control it, and then…"</p><p>"<em>My</em> magic, Draco. Not yours." He smiles, though it looks more tired than comforting. Draco's comforted nonetheless. "If anyone killed anyone else, it was <em>me</em>, and it was self-defense. I promise, you'll be safe."</p><p>Draco can feel himself flushing. "I… Are you sure?"</p><p>"Malfoy. We swapped bodies because of this prick, and he was going to <em>kill me</em>. Of course I'm sure."</p><p>Draco swallows. "Well, then. Thank you."</p><p>"We still need to get Ron here, as well as a clean-up team." Harry stumbles towards the stairs to the flat, then falls against the wall, clearly exhausted. "And I think I'll wait down here while you Floo him. Tell him to bring a Curse-Breaker along, yeah? Whatever potions you gave me are helping, but the spell he got me with is still doing whatever it's meant to do."</p><p>"Of course." Draco helps Harry sit on the bottom step, their knees brushing as Draco crouches down to ease him into sitting. "Do your best to stay conscious this time, please? My nerves really can't take much more of this."</p><p>"Your nerves? Are you 120?"</p><p>"It's been a rather eventful evening, Potter. A little compassion would do you good."</p><p>Harry laughs, though it turns into a cough that ends on a quiet sigh. "I'm sorry, Malfoy." He looks at Draco through his lashes, the light blood hairs nearly invisible against his pale skin. "For everything, actually. I shouldn't have stormed out."</p><p>"Certainly not." A lock of hair has fallen across Harry's forehead, and Draco's fingers itch to push it back. "It was clearly a poorly considered action."</p><p>"And," Harry continues, the corner of his mouth turned up, "thank you for saving my life."</p><p>"I wasn't going to let a madman stop the world from enjoying my gorgeous body, Potter. Saving you was… incidental."</p><p>"Still, thank you." He coughs again, and it's wetter this time. "Better make that Floo call. I think I might have a punctured lung."</p><p>"Merlin, shit. Of course." Draco stands, then hesitates before rushing back to the scattered potion bottles on the counter. He grabs the Blood-Replenisher and pushes it into Harry's hands, ignoring the flash of heat that races through him when their fingers touch. "I'll be right back, but if you start feeling faint, drink this first, then the green. I'm afraid the taste is going to be worse than just the Wiggenweld on its own, but it should stop the curse from finishing you off before the Healer arrives."</p><p>Harry uncorks the Blood-Replenisher and grimaces his way through a swallow, followed quickly by the Wiggenweld. When he coughs again, it's softer, easier.</p><p>Draco races up the stairs to his flat and the fireplace there, his focus solely on getting Harry help and not on what will certainly be a disaster once all of the authorities arrive.</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Harry comes to, the most surprising thing is that Hermione doesn't immediately try to kill him. He recognises that he's in St Mungo's, though he doesn't recognise this particular room. The layout, certainly. He's been injured before in the field, and after a certain point, all hospital rooms start to look the same. There's a good chance he's been in this one before, since the Aurors have a dedicated section in the A&amp;E department. Looking at Hermione's head resting on the bed near his hand, and Ron perched precariously in a chair by the door with his head tilted back in sleep and his arms crossed, Harry finds he doesn't care too much.</p><p>He does wonder where Draco is.</p><p>If he didn't feel like he ran a marathon after staying up for a week straight, Harry would get out of bed and go looking. Instead, all he can do is sit in the semi-dark of his room, the lights from the magical monitors casting a green, blue, and red glow across the thin cotton blanket covering his body, and wonder what might have happened earlier.</p><p>It's not that he doesn't believe Draco about what occurred at the shop. Obviously, William was there to kill Harry. He made that perfectly clear with all of the curses and jinxes he threw during their fight, not to mention the bruise in the shape of his boot on Harry's ribs and the Soul-Sucking Curse he levied before Harry passed out. But Draco refused to explain what, exactly, had happened <em>after</em>. Eyes refusing to meet Harry's, shoulders hunched, voice firm but shaking, Draco had simply changed the subject or focused on getting Harry to St Mungo's instead.</p><p>It has him worried.</p><p>It has him <em>worried </em>that it has him worried. Especially because he's not so much worried about <em>himself </em>as he is about <em>Draco</em>. Not from any possible charges that may arise—Harry knows he's got an iron-clad defense, and there's no way he's letting Draco take the fall for what happened—but because he's not sure what it means that he's unwilling to have Draco look at Harry with fear when they had finally started looking at each other with something… well, <em>new</em>.</p><p>Harry knows what it is to lust after Draco Malfoy. He's done it for years. But they've been trapped with each other for almost a week now, and Harry has to admit that sometime between then and now, it stopped feeling like a trap at all.</p><p>It feels like a gift.</p><p>There's a soft knock on his door, and a nurse pokes her head inside before quietly entering the room. She comes over to the side of his bed and starts checking the monitors, humming quietly to herself.</p><p>"Excuse me," Harry says as softly as he can. She still jumps, though she smiles reassuringly at him after pressing a hand to her heart. "I'm sorry, but I was wondering if…" His mind goes blank, uncertain who to ask for, himself or Draco.</p><p>"Your friend?" she asks with slight humor in her smile. "He's out in the hallway. I can let him know you're awake if you'd like?"</p><p>"Yes, please. Tell him to come in." Harry flushes, though he knows it won't be visible with all the dim lighting. "If he wants, I mean."</p><p>"Absolutely."</p><p>She fluffs his pillows, asks him a few questions about how he's feeling, checks his monitors and vitals. Once he assures her he's only feeling tired—"Completely normal, after what you've gone through," she says, though she refrains from explaining which part of what Harry's gone through she's talking about—she leaves the room.</p><p>A moment later, Draco walks in.</p><p>He looks tired. Harry remembers that particular shade of exhaustion from the Horcrux hunt. His eyes are shadowed by dark circles, his lip bitten to a deep red and cracked. Hands stuffed into his pockets, he comes to the side of the bed opposite Hermione and perches his hip on the edge. It's awkward, but Harry finds himself comforted by that. He wants to soothe the ruffled feathers that Draco's knocked out of place, to put his hand on top of Draco's where it rests on the blanket.</p><p>"Hey," Draco says after a too-long moment of silence. "How're you feeling?"</p><p>"Knackered, honestly."</p><p>"Can't say I blame you. You've had an eventful night." Draco's smile is forced. "I've written up a statement."</p><p>"Malfoy."</p><p>"I've written two, actually." He looks away and swallows. "One that's true and one that's… well, close enough for no one to question it, I guess."</p><p>"I already told you—"</p><p>"And I would have expected you to know better. There's no way this case resolves without me facing charges. Not with the war, not with my Mark."</p><p>"Draco, I—"</p><p>"I know. <em>I know</em>. But the rest of the world?" His sigh makes Harry ache. "It doesn't matter. I'm giving both of them to you for safekeeping. It's a mystery to me how it's happened, but I've come to… trust you during this past week. I know you'll do the right thing."</p><p>"The honest thing."</p><p>Draco laughs. "Honesty is far from useful, Potter. Better to be cautious."</p><p>"Caution is overrated."</p><p>"That's very Gryffindor of you to say."</p><p>"Draco." Harry slips his hand free of the blanket. "For what it's worth, I trust you, too."</p><p>"Why wouldn't you?"</p><p>"I've got a broken nose that would weigh heavily against you."</p><p>"Ah, yes." Draco grimaces. "That shared history of torture and torment. How could one forget?"</p><p>"Not too hard, actually. There's hardly any bend to it."</p><p>Harry reaches up and touches the slight twist at the bridge of Draco's—Harry's—nose, right under where his glasses sit. It's a matter of seconds, really, the stroke of Harry's finger across the delicate skin there, but it makes Draco's eyes widen and his mouth fall open.</p><p>The silence in the room is suddenly tense, and when Harry puts his hand back on the blanket, his pinky brushes against Draco's hand.</p><p>"Harry, you're awake." Hermione's voice is quiet and muzzy. "What time is it?"</p><p>"Just past two," Draco answers.</p><p>She rubs at her eyes, nodding as she stretches and stands up. After looking over at a still-sleeping Ron, she turns her focus to Harry and Draco. "So. You've swapped bodies."</p><p>Harry can feel his cheeks heating. "Yes."</p><p>"And you were going to…?"</p><p>"I've already brewed an antidote to the damned thing, Granger. There's no need to get worked up over it."</p><p>"I think there is. Honestly, what are you going to do if it doesn't work? There are secrecy charms in effect for your medical records, Harry, but you won't be able to keep it a secret forever."</p><p>Harry glances at Draco, whose head is bowed, arms crossed. "I trust Malfoy," he says, smiling when the man's head jerks up to meet Harry's gaze. "We'll be back where we belong soon, Hermione. Don't worry."</p><p>"That'll be the day," Ron says from his chair. "How're you feeling?"</p><p>"I'm all right. What about you?"</p><p>"Well, Robards was angrier about the whole swap than he was about the demon box, so you'll be in for an earful once you get back to work."</p><p>"And William?"</p><p>Ron gets up and walks next to Hermione, resting his hand on her back with casual intimacy and comfort. "That's a bit trickier."</p><p>"I'm off to Azkaban, then," Draco says with a sigh.</p><p>"No, not quite." Ron shakes his head. "Clearly, he was… whatever'd by an offensive spell of some kind. But the magical signature on his robe was a mix of yours and Harry's, a fifty-fifty split as far as they can tell. There's no way for the forensics to link only one of you to his… disappearance, I guess. And since Harry's life was jeopardised, they can't charge him. And if they charged <em>you</em>, all Harry would have to do is say that he did it, and you'd be off. It's easier to write it off as accidental magic than to go through the trouble of a prosecution guaranteed to end in an acquittal."</p><p>"I told you," Harry says with a tired grin. "You're off the hook, Malfoy."</p><p>It doesn't do anything to ease the worry from Draco's brow.</p><p>"The Unspeakables do want to look you two over when you're out of here, though," Ron says. "To see how the swap happened in the first place."</p><p>Harry groans. "Malfoy, you didn't happen to bring that antidote with you by chance? I hate having people poke at me, especially Unspeakables. They're particularly insistent about things."</p><p>Uncrossing his arms, Draco slips a hand into his robe and pulls out the two bottles. His smile seems sad, though, as he offers one to Harry. When he takes it, the glass is still warm from Draco's body heat.</p><p>"That's it? The antidote?" Hermione asks, voice high with interest. "What's in it? How did you make it?"</p><p>"I'll brew it for you later, Granger," Draco says with a tired sigh. "I'd like to get back into my own body first. Potter, whenever you're ready."</p><p>Harry holds the bottle in his hand for a moment, watching the pearlescent colours shift slowly. It'll be so simple, he thinks, to drink this, to let Draco cast his spell, and to let their hands touch. It'll be over. His gut twists with how easy it'll all be, and how far from easy it'll be after.</p><p>Ron's voice breaks the silence. "Hermione, I'm feeling a bit hungry. Let's head down to the cafeteria and grab a bite."</p><p>"Can't it wait? I'd like to see how this works."</p><p>"<em>Hermione</em>. Let's <em>go</em> to the <em>cafeteria</em>." He slides his arm around her waist, tugging her towards the door. "We'll be back later."</p><p>"Ron, I don't—"</p><p>He nearly shoves her out the door, then shoots Harry a thumbs-up before closing it behind him.</p><p>Draco sighs heavily. "Your friend is an idiot."</p><p>"But a well-meaning one. I guess he wanted to give us some privacy."</p><p>"I'd gathered." Draco unstoppers his bottle, then gestures for Harry to do the same. "Let's get on with it, Potter. I'm exhausted."</p><p>"Draco, wait."</p><p>Draco's eyebrow raises. "First names, is it?"</p><p>"I think it's time we switch, all things considered."</p><p>"I do like people who are intimately familiar with me to use my first name."</p><p>Harry's face is on fire. He's going to combust into flames and die. "Ah," is all he can manage to say.</p><p>"Ah, indeed." Draco's smile is genuine now, his eyes bright with humor. "It's fine, Po—Harry. We all indulge from time to time."</p><p>"Did you?" Harry wants to slap his hand over his mouth or hide beneath the covers and never come out.</p><p>"I did not." Draco's gaze is intent. "But I certainly considered it."</p><p>Christ, now Harry's getting hard while in a hospital bed. His heart monitor picks up its pace, the quiet beep increasing in tempo, and Draco raises an eyebrow.</p><p>"I feel bad knowing you're going to end up in a hospital bed if we do this now," Harry says, refusing to acknowledge his racing pulse. "Are you sure you don't want to wait until I recover, get out of the worst of it?"</p><p>"We could have done this the other day and avoided the whole thing."</p><p>"Or I would've ended up at the wrong end of William's wand, without you to intervene."</p><p>"Maybe. I guess we'll never know. But…" He swallows. "I miss the feel of my own skin."</p><p>"Okay." Harry uncorks his bottle and brings it to his lips. Draco mirrors his motion, and though his eyes close as he drinks, Harry keeps his open, his gaze focused on Draco's expression as Draco swallows, a trace of pearly liquid in the corner of his mouth.</p><p>The potion hits him like a shot of Ogden's. There's a blazing warmth in his stomach, and Harry gasps at the sensation. "Godric, that's a lot."</p><p>Grimacing, Draco nods. "It should go away as soon as we cast." He pulls out his wand and gestures for Harry to get his. It's sitting on a small table next to his bed, and he fumbles for it before mirroring Draco's wand position. "You'll have to say the incantation with me. It's <em>Reditus</em>. Half circle on the downstroke, then a quick slash to the upper right. Like this."</p><p>Draco moves his arm and hand gracefully through the air, then jerks it up like a fisherman setting a hook. Harry repeats the motion, and Draco nods.</p><p>Together, arms raised, stomachs filled with heat, they move their wands through the air. The only sound is their voices joined in unison, the one word spoken with intent.</p><p>"<em>Reditus</em>."</p><p>The heat blooms, spreading from the tight ball in his gut to his arms and legs, then the tips of his fingers and toes. Harry gasps, his lips tingling with the rush of air across them. He wants away from this feeling, the oversensitive slide of muscles beneath skin, of his blood pounding through his veins and arteries. But at the same time, he languishes in it, the feeling riding the knife-edge of pain and pleasure.</p><p>"I thought," he finally manages to say, "that you said it would go away."</p><p>"I was wrong." Draco shuts his eyes as he pants. "That happens sometimes."</p><p>"What's next?"</p><p>"We touch. That should cause our consciousnesses to switch back."</p><p>Harry reaches for Draco's hand, desperate to feel skin against skin and to make the ache throughout his body end. But instead of finding the bones and tendons of Draco's hand, Harry caresses the blanket, its threads still warm from Draco's touch.</p><p>When he looks up, it's to find Draco leaning in, his eyes locked on Harry's lips, his intent clear. A touch is all it will take, and this is the touch that Draco's offering. And though Harry could lay still in the bed, could let Draco make this decision for the both of them, Harry moves a little left instead of right, forward instead of back. He presses his lips against Draco's, meeting him more than halfway, and feels his entire body go alight.</p><p>It's like a sun erupting in his chest, a supernova of elemental power that leaves his bones aching. Light blinds him, though his eyes are closed, and all he can see is red and blue, twined together in a solid rope of energy. He reaches for it, but his body doesn't move. Instead, his mind shifts, then falls into the thread of power. Thought disappears, lost in a wave of pain that would steal Harry's breath if he had any. He rides the crest of it, cast adrift until he crashes into a distant shore. The press of it against his back feels familiar, welcoming, and he drags himself forward, the taste of salt and the grit of sand in his mouth. The blue light on the horizon is the same shade as the ocean, and Harry pulls himself forward, arm over arm, inch by inch, waves lapping at his legs.</p><p>When he comes back to himself, he's still panting, can still taste salt on his tongue, but it's the salt of sweat, rather than the sea, and he's breathing heavily against Draco's mouth. His long, pale fingers are tangled in Harry's hair, holding him close as they both catch their breath from the results of the spell.</p><p>"Harry," Draco says, and it's a shock to Harry that it's in Draco's own voice again, rather than Harry's, "I think we're back."</p><p>"Yeah. Yeah, you're right." Harry doesn't know if he should move, though he knows what he wants to do. The burn of the potion is gone, but Harry's still warm and wanting. Draco's lips are only a hair's breadth away, but it feels like miles. "Draco, I—"</p><p>"Don't." Draco's fingers tighten in Harry's hair, and when Harry lets his gaze trail up the delicate, sharp planes of Draco's face to his eyes, they're closed tightly, thin lines gathered at the corners as if he can't bear to let any hint of light through. "Just a moment more, before this is gone."</p><p>Harry can't think of anything to say to that, so he kisses Draco instead of speaking. It's gentle this time, though no less hungry for it. He lifts his hands from the bed and cups the line of Draco's jaw, angling his head just a bit to the side so that their lips slot together like they were made to do it. His fingers dip into the soft hollows where Draco's jaw meets his ears, lets his thumbs trace the line of bone beneath skin, drags them down the column of Draco's throat until Harry can feel Draco's pulse, the tempo fast and insistent beneath his fingertips. Harry counts the beats—<em>one, two, three</em>—before letting his hands drop to Draco's chest. It forces Harry to lean over the hospital bed, and before he can stop himself, he's lifted his knee to the thin mattress, pushing himself onto the bed and over Draco's lithe body. There's no thought to it, just instinct and desire driving him forward, so when Draco's hand at Harry's throat stops and inflames Harry in equal measure, he desperately tries to find his equilibrium again.</p><p>"As much as I'd like to see where this is going," Draco says, his voice dark and wrecked by desire, "your friends are going to be back any minute, and I'm certain a mediwizard is going to come in here to find out why my heartrate is through the ceiling."</p><p>Harry kisses Draco again, then lets his tongue trail over the swell of Draco's lower lip before Harry pulls back. "You might have a point."</p><p>"At least one," Draco says, his hips rising from the bed purposefully. "And I have to ask…"</p><p>There's a knock at the door, and though it's the last thing Harry wants to do, he pulls himself away from Draco, climbing off of the bed and plainly adjusting himself in his trousers. He can feel Draco's eyes on him, and it makes his blood pound in his ears.</p><p>"Mr Potter?" a quiet voice asks from the cracked door. "Are you okay in there?"</p><p>"Just fine," Harry says, taking a step back. "We've gone ahead and switched back is all. Our apologies for causing any trouble."</p><p>The nurse, a woman who looks to be only a few years younger than Harry and Draco, pops her head into the room fully. "And how are you feeling? Any light-headedness? Nausea? Discomfort?"</p><p>Harry thinks of his hard cock pressed against his metal zip and says, "Some mild discomfort. Nothing unbearable."</p><p>"Shall I call the mediwizard?"</p><p>"No need," Draco says, still looking intently at Harry. "I think Mr Potter was just about to head out."</p><p>"Not until Ron and Hermione get back. I don't want them to be confused."</p><p>"I can't believe you'd deny me a little bit of fun, Potter. After all I've done for you."</p><p>Harry shouldn't smile but he does. "Do you promise to not do anything too awful?"</p><p>"Again, you insist on taking the joy out of my life."</p><p>"Well, we can't have that."</p><p>"No, we can't."</p><p>Harry laughs quietly, though it still sounds painfully fond. "Okay, fine. But only five minutes, then you have to tell them."</p><p>"I can do an awful lot in five minutes," Draco says with a teasing smile that has heat racing through Harry's limbs. "Though I guess you'll have to find that out for yourself."</p><p>"It's a date."</p><p>"It's a—"</p><p>Ron steps into the room, a cup of tea steaming in his hand. "Well, mates, I did my best to keep her off of you long enough to do the whole switcheroo sans an audience. How'd it go?"</p><p>"We haven't switched yet," Draco says, though he's speaking slightly lower than normal, as if affecting Harry's baritone through his own vocal chords. "Malfoy wants to wait until tomorrow."</p><p>"There are some things I need back at the shop," Harry improvises. "And Potter needs his rest."</p><p>"Right, of course." Ron frowns. "You could've said something before I dragged Hermione out of here. She's been tearing into me for the last five minutes."</p><p>"Because I wanted to watch what is likely to be a pivotal moment in magical history, Ronald," Hermione says as she hurries through the door. She stills, glancing from Harry, to Draco, then back again before she lets out a heavy, disappointed sigh. "You've already done it, then."</p><p>"No, Malfoy needs some stuff back at his shop, and—"</p><p>"Ron. Honestly. I don't understand how you can't tell by just looking at them." She snatches the cup of tea from Ron's hand, then holds it before her chin, squinting at Harry and Draco like they're specimens in a laboratory. "Now, tell me what it was like."</p><p>"I think that's your cue to leave, Potter. I believe this is what you would consider 'poking.'" Draco leans back into the pillows and starts pulling the blankets up to his chin. "I'm going to turn in for the night. Whatever you did to my body, it's awfully sore."</p><p>Christ, Harry needs to get his mind out of the gutter. "Right, of course. You need your rest."</p><p>Draco fakes a yawn, but it quickly turns genuine. "Salazar, I'm exhausted. Please, if you lot can make yourselves scarce, I'd like to get some rest before they kick me out."</p><p>"Of course," Harry says, though Hermione looks like she'd rather sit and talk Draco's ear off about the switch—both the in and the out from each other's bodies—and his antidote.</p><p>It takes Harry and Ron a good five minutes to get her to leave, and only then with promises that she'll have first crack at interviewing the two of them after the Unspeakables are done with their own rounds of examinations.</p><p>Still, it's Harry who's last to leave the hospital room. As Ron and Hermione walk slowly down the hallway, Harry waits in the door frame, neither in nor out of the room. Looking back at Draco—who's already slipped deeper under the covers, eyes closed and pale face relaxing into sleep—Harry's chest aches like William's curse is still there and drawing strength from his body, leaving everything empty and sore after. His hand rises to rub at his breast bone before he can stop himself, as if that gentle touch will ease any of the tender pain hiding there.</p><p>When he finally leaves, it's with the knowledge that whatever comes next, it's in Draco Malfoy's hands now.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>During the two weeks after Draco vacates Harry's body to resettle into his own, he is prodded, poked, probed, and—one time—pushed by Unspeakables, Ministry forensics techs, and Hermione Granger in equal measure. Diagnostics are run, tests are performed, and by the end of it, no one is any wiser as to why, exactly, the swap happened in the first place.</p><p>"I just don't get it," Granger says as she stares down at a tabletop filled with notes, her hair tangled about her fingers as she pushes it back from her face. "I mean, I can understand the interaction from the Mopsus—your instincts were spot-on with that one, Malfoy, honestly—but why would it respond in exactly that way? Even if William used one of the more devastating curses, I don't understand why the potions wouldn't have just healed you."</p><p>"That's the wonderful thing about magic, Granger," he says as he leans back into his chair. "It doesn't always make sense."</p><p>The aftermath of all of it makes as little sense to Draco as the actual swap. After the poking and prodding is over, Draco goes back to his day-to-day at the store and tries to pretend like nothing has changed. He finishes the pointless Polyjuice, which at least keeps his hands busy, and sells it and other potions in the front, and when he goes back to his flat in Covent Garden in the evenings, he does his best to not miss those few days with Harry too close and too familiar, his skin as comfortable as Draco's own.</p><p>Draco shouldn't miss being in Harry's skin, or the way Potter’s dark hair curled just past the edge of Draco’s vision. He shouldn't be pushing up a pair of glasses that aren't there, ones that he only just started to become comfortable wearing. And he shouldn't long for the shape of Harry's body beneath his clothes, or the way it moved when Draco was the one guiding it. It's too familiar, too fresh, and it only adds to the pain of not hearing from the bastard since that kiss in the hospital.</p><p>And that kiss… Draco tries to ration his reminiscence. Only once or twice a day, at <em>most</em>, does he allow himself to linger in the memory, but it sneaks up on him. He'll be waiting for a cauldron to boil, and the steam rising from it will recall Harry's breath against Draco's lips. Or he'll be decanting potions into bottles, and the green glass will remind him of eyes in the dim light of a hospital room. Sometimes, when he's restocking the loose ingredients, he'll take in a deep breath of cedar and sandalwood, and all he can remember is the smell of Harry's cologne and the way it clung to Draco's clothes after, even though they'd only touched for a few, agonising, glorious seconds.</p><p>Draco pushes one last bottle onto the shelf, finally done with the restocking. He's doing it because it's absolutely necessary and not just a way to keep his hands busy, or at least that's the lie he's comfortable telling himself. It's late. The store's been closed for hours, but Draco needed to finish putting out his new line of healing potions, and the loose ingredients needed to be resorted, and sometimes, when Draco is feeling fanciful or morose, he just wants to stay in this place, where he feels like he's safe to be himself, where he belongs. And tonight, he's feeling more than a bit morose.</p><p>A full month after everything, and he hasn't heard a word from Potter. No owl, no Floo call, not even a note stuck under the door of the shop. It's not like Harry doesn't know where Draco <em>is</em>, for Salazar's sake. The store hasn't moved. Its open hours are the same as they were before. Draco hasn't suddenly quit potioneering to become a jazz musician in a Muggle cafe in Peckham. He's <em>right</em> <em>here</em>, and there's been no word.</p><p>Of course, Draco hasn't exactly reached out either. Something about that kiss has made him more of a coward than he already knows himself to be. There's a pile of crumpled up parchment in his study to attest to that, a hundred different versions of "Hello, Harry. I'd really like to kiss you again (maybe for forever). Please contact me as soon as possible so we can get on with it already. We're not getting any younger, and I’m starting to feel a bit desperate." left in his waste paper basket.</p><p>It's juvenile, this inability to go after what he wants, when he wants it because he might fail, but it is, at his core, part of who Draco Malfoy is. And as far as Harry Potter is concerned, Draco is unlikely to make the first move. After all, wanting Harry Potter has been a habit of his since before they graduated from Hogwarts. But Harry Potter wanting him back?</p><p>The idea is unbelievable.</p><p>Draco refuses to pine, no matter how good it feels to sit in the ache of it all. He can move past this, can appreciate the bright moment of his life when he learned the feel of Harry’s mouth against his, the tangle of his hair around Draco’s fingers, the desperate press of Harry’s hand against the pulse racing at Draco’s throat.</p><p>It’ll have to be enough for him to get through.</p><p>He’s about to walk into the backroom when there’s a tentative knock on the door. The glass rattles in the frame, and Draco considers ignoring it for a moment. But then the knocking increases in its insistency, and with a sigh, he turns around.</p><p>It is, of course, Harry. He waves tentatively, his head ducked as he looks past the logo on the front door. The street lights outside cast his skin in a golden glow, his hair artfully tousled and hanging just over his eyes, his grin both charming and sheepish. Draco holds up two fingers and turns to go into the backroom.</p><p>"Hey, Malfoy!" Harry's banging on the door is frantic. "Draco! Let me in, you prat!"</p><p>"I'm the prat?" Draco turns around storms to the front door. "<em>I'm</em> the prat?"</p><p>"Yes! Now, let me in before we make a spectacle of ourselves."</p><p>Draco unlocks the door and flings it open, scowling as Potter laughs on his doorstep.</p><p>"I hate you."</p><p>"No, you don't." Harry pushes his way inside and forces the door shut behind him, locking it before crowding into Draco's space. "Hi."</p><p>Draco puts on his shopkeeper's voice, straightening his shoulders as he does. "Good evening, Auror Potter. How can I help you this evening?"</p><p>"There are a few things I could think of."</p><p>"Of course. Might I offer you a Calming Draught or an Oblivious Unction?"</p><p>"No?" Harry frowns. "Why would I need those?"</p><p>"Because either you've lost your mind and need something to soothe your damaged psyche, or I'm going to kill you with my mind, in which case the other potion will be necessary."</p><p>"Draco, honestly." Harry reaches for Draco's hand, grabbing it before Draco can pull it away. Harry presses his thumb to the ridge of Draco's knuckles, dragging it across the bones and leaving a trail of fire in his wake. "I would've called sooner, but Mysteries had me under quarantine."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"Yeah, it's been… interesting, to say the least."</p><p>"They didn't… I wasn't…"</p><p>Harry flushes, dropping his head as his thumb keeps moving across Draco's skin. "I might have told them to leave you out of it. You didn't need any more trouble because of me."</p><p>"You didn't have to… Why did you?" Draco swallows. "Why didn't you owl?"</p><p>Harry looks up through his lashes, that sheepish smile back in place. "What I wanted to say to you? It needed to be said in person."</p><p>Draco swallows again, throat tight. "Say what you need to say, Potter. I've a shop to close up."</p><p>"Right. Here goes." Harry takes a deep breath, then continues. "I'd like to say thank you. For stepping in front of that curse and for saving my life again, whether you meant to or not for either event. I think I'd be dead twice over if it weren't for you, and I don't know that I told you that the last time I saw you."</p><p>"You didn't, no."</p><p>"And," he continues, "I wanted to thank you for keeping our… situation a secret as long as you could. There are other people who might've taken advantage of being the Boy Who Lived all of a sudden, but you didn't do anything other than try to get us back where we belonged. That was rather upstanding of you. And"—he laughs quietly—"for not being too much of an arse to Ron, though I'm sure he deserved it some of the time. And, finally, I wanted to ask you… If you don't have any plans this Friday, I'd like to take you to dinner."</p><p>Draco nearly laughs. "You what?"</p><p>"Dinner. It's a meal traditionally eaten in the evening. I would like you to join me for it, preferably at a restaurant so I don't scare you off with my cooking."</p><p>"I know what dinner is." Draco twists his hand so that his palm presses against Harry's. "But you want to have it with me."</p><p>"Yes. I did say it was a date." Harry smiles, the edges of his eyes wrinkling with it. "I was thinking Indian."</p><p>Pulling his hand back far enough so that he can tangle his fingers with Harry's, Draco can't stop the grin from spreading across his face. "Indian sounds lovely."</p><p>"Good." Harry takes another step closer. "One other thing. I'd like to kiss you. Again."</p><p>"Oh. That's rather forward of you."</p><p>"I think you like it."</p><p>"Perhaps."</p><p>Harry's mouth is curving up when it presses against Draco's, and for a brief second, Draco thinks he can taste the laughter on Potter's lips. But then he's overwhelmed by heat, and his hand tangled with Harry's tightens almost to the point of pain until Harry takes a final step closer, slides his hand free, and buries it in Draco's hair, holding him close.</p><p>Harry feasts on Draco's mouth, and Draco lets himself be devoured. His hand rests at the dip of Harry's waist. Draco knows what that expanse of muscle and skin feels like, knows how sensitive it is from experience, and when he slips his hand through the open front of Harry's robes and under his shirt so that Draco can touch bare skin, Harry groans into Draco's mouth. The star-shaped scar is barely perceptible beneath Draco's touch. He scrapes his fingers over it and the muscled curve of Harry's side and hip, pulling him close enough that Draco can feel the quickly hardening line of Harry's cock pressed against Draco's own.</p><p>"Who's being forward now?" Harry asks, sliding his lips to the hinge of Draco's jaw, then the cords of his neck. He nips there, then soothes the ache when Draco lets out a shocked gasp.</p><p>"If you'd like me to stop"—Draco tilts his head to the side, eyes sliding shut as Harry takes the lobe of Draco's ear between his teeth—"I can oblige."</p><p>"I'll hex you if you even think about it."</p><p>Harry kisses Draco again and again and again. Soft, gentle touches as delicate as an errant summer breeze, followed by deep, bruising caresses that Draco can feel to the tips of his toes. He can't decide what part of Harry's body he wants to touch most, so Draco lets his hands roam all of it. Across Harry's back, his chest, his neck. Fingers twining with hair and clothes, slipping beneath hems and waistbands, pulling Harry closer, closer, closer, so that Draco can remember the feel of Harry's body when it moves and learn the weight of it beneath Draco's touch.</p><p>He loses track of time, his entire being subsumed by the sensation of Harry pressed against him and the glancing brush of lips against lips. Harry's hand on Draco's cheek is soft and tender, and it makes something bloom in Draco's stomach, a green, growing thing that makes him ache for early mornings in bed and cups of tea in the afternoon and quiet evenings spent in each other's company. It's more than physical, and he wants it so much he thinks he might choke on it, tasting grass on the back of his tongue.</p><p>When Harry pulls away, Draco knows it will be written across his face, the way he yearns for this, for <em>more</em>. But instead of ridicule or mocking scorn, all Draco sees in Harry's eyes is the same desire, reflected back.</p><p>"Fuck Friday," Harry says softly. "Let me take you to dinner tonight."</p><p>Draco doesn't know why he says, "I've got plans," but Harry's barking laugh likely counts for at least ninety-five percent of his motivation.</p><p>Harry kisses him again. "Break them. Come have dinner with me, Draco. Please."</p><p>"Fine," Draco says with feigned indignation. "If you're going to make a fuss about it."</p><p>Walking side by side with Harry Potter down the center of Horizont Alley, its street lights banked for the evening and their footsteps echoing down the empty street, Draco has to admit this isn't where he thought his life would lead him. But with the heat of Harry against his side and the way their arms brush as they head towards Muggle London and Draco's favourite Indian place, Draco can't help but think this is yet another thing he doesn't deserve. But as he's done with all the others, he's going to hold onto it with both hands and refuse to let go. Lacing his fingers through Potter's is just the first step.</p><p>He'll see where all the others lead them.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This fic was part of HD Erised 2020; thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment below. ♥</p></blockquote></div></div>
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